


More of an Aminta

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christine is a Badass, Don Juan Triumphant, Erik is a Stalker, F/M, M/M, OT3, Raoul is Bae, Singing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9595652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Christine and Raoul rehearse "Point of No Return" together, even though Raoul was never meant to be a Don Juan. But Erik is watching, and for the first time finds their chemistry together something other than infuriating. The way they complement each other is beautiful.Of course, being Erik, he decides to make that beauty his own.By putting Raoul into his opera.





	1. The Apricot Dress

Christine was trying her best for _Don Juan Triumphant_. She didn’t like being in the show, didn’t like the idea of catering to the Phantom’s whims, didn’t like the dissonant score for that matter, but she knew she had no choice. And honestly, she was trying. But. That dress.

In some ways, it was a very nice dress. It was a golden orange color with a layered skirt and red and black in the lace. It was properly Spanish, and properly gorgeous. It was also the most sexualized thing Christine had ever found herself wearing, and she had prior to this been a ballet girl.

The skirt was fine with its layers and frills, until you realized it stopped halfway down your lower leg, purposefully baring the ankle and foot, almost, if you leaned a certain way, uncovering your knees. The bustle was fine until you realized how much it jostled every time you moved, calling attention to your hips with every step. The corset was the same as the corset on any dress except it was so dark against the gaudy colors, so blatant, and the colors so freakishly bright, all of it putting her on display for any man in the audience, and not in the elegant way her costumes in the past had displayed her. She was supposed to look like a tart, and she did. She certainly did.

It wasn’t like she couldn’t play the part of a more promiscuous character—those were common enough and she’d been bound to get one eventually.

But she’d looked at the notes sent to the costume department, seen how exactly the Phantom had described every frill. He’d wanted her to look like this. And his eyes would be on her during the show, not just evaluating her as always but gloating over her, taking in the spectacle he had created of her body, perhaps lingering on the low neckline or trailing down her exposed legs…

“You can make the skirt a bit longer,” she said to the costume department hopefully. “See, it is not long enough like this. Perhaps just another inch…”

They shook their heads and made her read the note again. It was very specific.

It was two weeks until the debut of _Don Juan Triumphant_ , and rehearsing in costume was standard now. So she put the dress on (it was only for a couple scenes of the play anyway) and tried to focus.

 It was fine backstage, where no one could see her. The dress she was wearing barely seemed to matter. All that mattered was performing, after all. And she had performed this duet many times before.

So she went onstage as calmly as possible, mechanically following her blocking, listening to Piangi sing those same lines she had heard a thousand times by now.

And then, halfway through Piangi’s verse:

“Bravo, bravo, bravissima…”

She gasped. But no one else reacted. She was hearing things, she was sure. But he was watching her. Of course he was watching her—this was her first time performing in his little costume, and he wanted to see it all. She could feel his gaze on her chest, constricting her ribs more than her corset did. She couldn’t breathe.

“What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn…”

Piangi’s voice floated back to her. His voice was safe, the seductive lyrics caged within thick accent and lilting tone. He was the practiced seducer, his words had no intensity, and he was expecting her to respond only because it was two weeks before the show. He had no stake in these words, no stake in her voice.

She opened her mouth to sing…

(But the Phantom did have a stake, did want to hear her. He was pulling the words out of her, pulling, pulling…)

Pulling the air out of the lungs as she stumbled back into Piangi’s chest and gasped and gasped and gasped and…

Piangi caught hold of her.

“Miss Daae.”

She focused on his voice. She was making a fool of herself, and he still expected her to sing. She opened her mouth, pushed the words out. “You have brought me to that moment when words run dry, to that moment when speech dissolves into silence, silence.”

The piano swelled again, but she could not sing the next line. She staggered out of Piangi’s arms, glanced back to see him looking at her in concern. And his gaze was focused on her face, but she could still feel the focus of the Phantom admiring those apricot curves of cloth that pressed against her body, against her skin…

“Miss Daae,” said the chorus director. “Your line is—”

“I know my line!” she said. And she didn’t want to hear it, from his mouth or from her own. The words were still the Phantom’s, no  matter who spoke them.

Everyone was staring at her.

“And can you sing that line?” the chorus director said.

She shook her head. “I cannot rehearse today.”

“I’m afraid we cannot hold up rehearsal for you any longer. This scene must be played out.”

“I…” She knew she couldn’t sing those lines. Not in this dress, not in full view of the Phantom, watching from Box Five or maybe a peephole in the walls or up among the lights—who knew where he chose to sit himself. It had always been a mystery. “I must have some time to myself. I will return in an hour.”

“A full hour, Miss Daae?”

“A full hour,” she snapped. “And send the Vicomte de Chagny to me. I will be in my room.”

She walked off stage a little too fast. God, she was acting just like Carlotta!

* * *

 

She was only waiting in her room for a few minutes before Raoul came.

He rushed in as out of breath as she had been a minute ago, but far more aware than she was feeling even now. His eyes pinned her in a more stable way than the Phantom’s, and she came to herself slowly, realizing she had been fiddling with her hairbrush for some time now, poking her fingers against the still bristles without actually raising the brush to her hair.

He scanned her over, possibly looking for injuries. Christine almost laughed. The only person in this opera house who would hurt anyone was the Phantom, and he would never hurt Christine. Not as long as she played his little game. And God knew she was playing.

“They said you needed me,” Raoul said, closing the door which he had left open when he came bolting in. He looked back at her, brow creased.

She nodded, out of words.

He walked over to her side and pulled up a chair. She had a few scattered in the room, for entertaining guests. “You have a new dress. The one for the seduction scene?”

She nodded again.

He put a hand on her knee. The warm weight felt incongruous against the ruffled lace and satin. “It’s a nice dress.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Oh.” He glanced down at the length of exposed leg, causing her to blush. Not that it should embarrass her—they’d been together for some time now and he’d seen a lot more of her than that!—but still, somehow it did. Because she hadn’t intended for him to see her legs, not just now. Which was the whole trouble with this dress, really.

“It’s too short,” she said angrily. “Even my character—why would she wear a dress so awkwardly short? And all this lace.” She picked at the lace near the waist of her corset. “She’s putting herself on display for every man in the audience.”

Raoul shrugged. “It is a seduction scene, after all.” He squeezed her knee. “I am sorry that you have to do it. But you have sung through it beautifully before. Even your body language is, well, fitting.”

Raoul had watched about half of her rehearsals, even though there was no need for him to be there. He was constantly at the opera house lately, either watching her or talking to her or making arrangements for the performance with the gendarmes.

“It is an ugly dress,” she said.

“Can you ask the costume department to make adjustments?”

“No. It’s exactly as he intended it.”

Raoul said, “The Phantom.”

“Yes.”

He leaned back. “They said you choked up onstage today. Is this why?”

She felt he understood everything, even without her explaining it. She explained anyway. How she had felt the Phantom watching, how she knew he must enjoy seeing her in the dress. “I am the puppet who dances on his strings,” she said bitterly. “I can feel them. They are sewn into this dress. They jerk at my arms, my legs…”

As she trailed off, Raoul nodded. “I see. So this dress is the Phantom’s mark on you.”

“Yes.” Like he needed one. He was already in her voice, her posture, in every move and lilt of tone he had coached into her singing. He was already in her mind, infiltrating her dreams. Now he chose her clothing and the songs she sang as well. Perhaps it made no difference.

“And yet you must sing in it.”

“If he says I must, then I must,” she said. “But I do not like to think of him.”

“Do not think of him,” Raoul said. “Think of me.”

Such a sweet and earnest boy. She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. “You are sweet. But when I am onstage, you will not be there.”

“I will be. I will watch you through all of it. I will keep you safe, and I will not leave you.”

“But the words and the notes and the actions…Those are all his, Raoul. You cannot go there with me.”

“Can’t I?”

His voice had hardened. Christine watched, surprised, as he got to his feet. He held out a hand. She took it after a moment, and he pulled her up too.

“Now,” he said. “Stand there.” He pointed across the room. “That is the correct distance, right?”

“Raoul, what are you doing?”

“Stand there.”

And so she did.

Raoul smiled and took a deep breath. “You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish which til now has been silent, silent…”

Christine almost laughed. He wasn’t warmed up. His voice was scratchy and lacked the depth of Piangi or the man she had considered her angel. But he continued, undeterred. “I have brought you that our passions may fuse and merge. In your mind you’ve already succumbed to me, dropped your defenses, completely succumbed to me. And now you are here with me.” He paused and smiled. “No second thoughts, you’ve decided. Decided…”

It was the same smile he’d worn the night they’d first kissed, when he had told her he wanted her to be with him forever. Succumb to him? Yes, she had. And so had he succumbed to her.

She stepped towards him as his voice began to twine around the refrain. He sang it softly, partly because they were in her dressing room and not on a stage, but also because that was just typical of him. To take a song that spoke of fire and sing it so tenderly that you imagined a hearth.

“What warm unspoken secrets shall we learn?” he sang. She took his hand as he finished the line. “Beyond the point of no return.”

She licked her lips. She had almost forgotten she was expected to sing at this point. She stuttered through the first line, remembering earlier, onstage. “To that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence…”

But where she had stumbled before, he wrapped his arms around her waist. Now her back was square against his chest, and the awareness sent prickles down her spine. She looked up at him, and he was still smiling, and the words flowed out of her. Although of course she knew the reason why she came to him, why she would always come to him. Because he was…

…Raoul.

Her Raoul.

She smirked. “In my mind I’ve already imagined our bodies entwined, defenseless and silent.” She rubbed her back against him as she sang and felt him stiffen. Poor innocent Raoul. After all their time together (and they had spent it well) he still cringed at any mention of sex. “I’ve decided,” she sang. “Decided.”

Now she let her voice drop into insinuation. Raoul would sing to her tenderly as always, but she wasn’t afraid to up the ante. She took his hands and placed them on her hips, where the lace gathered, where the fabric was tight against her curves. He stared down at her back, unable to meet her eyes. She tilted her head back and up and whispered her song in his ear. “Past all thought of right, or wrong, one final question.”

She pulled back, then, and feeling his grip tighten on her waist, sang the next line full volume. “How long should we two wait, before we’re one?”

“When will the blood begin to race?” She pulled his hands up—now they were right under her breasts, almost cupping them. “The sleeping bud burst into bloom?” And one more inch, and she pushed them against her breasts. She could feel him breathing hard, fighting to stand still. Poor, poor boy. “When will the flames at last consume us?”

She jerked away and out of his arms to face him as she continued to sing, locking eyes with him. “Past the point of no return, the final threshold.” His voice was ragged, not merely scratchy as it had been before.  “The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn. We’re past the point of no return.”

They were both breathing hard, Christine from singing at such a volume, Raoul (who had been singing somewhat breathily all along) for decidedly other reasons. At this point onstage she and Piangi were supposed to pause and allow the audience to applaud. Here, in the privacy of her room, she had no desire to stop.

She grabbed hold of Raoul’s cravat and dragged his face down to her level. He’d have to wait to catch his breath until later. Now, she captured his mouth in a strong, solid kiss, slipping her tongue between his lips. His hands cupped her cheeks. But she took hold of those warm, strong hands and, still kissing him, moved them down to the laces on the back of her dress.

Thank God it was made for quick changes.

As he untied the knots she hurriedly undid his buttons and pulled his jacket off him. When she was done she stepped out—still had her hoop on though, and she turned to let him take that off as well. While he was at it he took off her corset, which was nice, but she really hoped he would help her put it back on later. Lacing your own corset wasn’t exactly fun.

She slipped off his vest, and they both took off their boots. Now, he was just in pants and shirt and socks, and she was just in her petticoat and shift and stockings. Much, much better.

“Care to rehearse again?” she said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“I thought the dress was the whole point,” he said.

“Well,” Christine said with a smirk. “I think we’re past that point.”

Raoul looked unimpressed. She finished his buttons and pulled off his shirt. He glanced nervously towards the door and she, rolling her eyes, pinched one of his nipples. That definitely brought his attention back.

“We should lock the door,” he said.

“No one’s going to come in.”

“We should still…” He trailed off as she leaned in to kiss his collarbone, long and hard.

“Am I going to have to do all the work?”

“Just let me lock it.”

“Fine.”

He came back a second later and, making up for lost time, immediately kissed her again. That was his favorite part, kissing. He wasn’t bad at it either. Having kissed her lips he moved on to her neck, and she grabbed at his back to steady herself. Noticing, he maneuvered the two of them over to the wall, and she leaned back gratefully. It wasn’t the first time she’d regretted the fact that her dressing room lacked a bed.

“Past all thought of if, or when,” she sang breathily in his ear. He squeezed at her hips before reaching down to pull up her petticoat—and her shift. “No use resisting. Abandon thought and…”

And then she really did abandon thought.

* * *

 

And behind the full length mirror, the Phantom of the opera house stood watching with weak knees.


	2. Erik Gets a Song Stuck in His Head

If anyone asked (and of course no one ever did), Erik would say he was a man of simple pleasures. He had no particularly refined taste in food and ate anything Madame Giry brought him, lived in a simple if well decorated system of tunnels beneath the opera house, and if he liked listening to the opera a bit more than a truly simple man, he still found greater pleasure in a well performed solo or duet than in the more complicated choral arrangements.

Today Erik had promised himself one pleasure, and it was as simple as one could imagine. He was going to go down to Box Five (they were leaving it empty for him lately until the day of the performance, when no doubt it would be heavily guarded) and watch Christine perform the seduction scene in the dress he had requested for her. It was a nice dress—he had seen the final product from a distance—and Christine would look very good in it, and it would put her fully in the character of Aminta he had envisioned for her. He had no intention of doing anything more ambitious, like approaching Christine or leaving notes to anyone. No, today was merely a day of observation and not of interference. Only to watch his pupil sing a song he wrote in a dress that made her look good—one’s desires could not get much simpler than that.

When she came onstage, she looked as he had pictured: beautiful. Not that she didn’t always look beautiful. But now she looked the part of a seductress instead of an ingénue, and it suited her. She should be past pretending to be innocent. That was what the entire play was about.

Only, there was something wrong. As she walked onstage, her steps were faltering. And after only a couple lines sung, her voice failed.

“What’s wrong, my dear?” he murmured. Of course, this far away there was no way she could hear him. But she was reacting as if someone had attacked her, to no visible problem.

And only a minute later, she had stormed off stage.

It wasn’t typical of her to throw a fit like this, even if lately her nerves had been on edge. Erik frowned. He would have to go check on her. Not to mention she had summoned the Vicomte de Chagny for some reason, as if he would be able to solve anything. She’d been around him even more since the start of rehearsals for _Don Juan Triumphant_ and Erik hated it.

He would have to see what she wanted with the Vicomte.

By the time he got to her room through the secret passages of the opera house, the Vicomte was already there. They were talking about the dress.

“I am the puppet who dances on his strings. I can feel them. They are sewn into this dress. They jerk at my arms, my legs…”

Erik frowned thoughtfully, leaning against the wall behind the full length mirror. He had not intended for Aminta’s seductive dress to feel restricting. He had only wanted her to look the way he saw her: radiantly sexual, ready to take on anyone and anything, with just a touch of innocence that only made her more irresistible once she set her mind to it. And he had thought this design succeeded at that. Only now, as she crumpled the lace with her fists, she did not look so radiant. She almost looked haggard.

Yet, he could not feel entirely regretful. A smile grew on his face as she continued to speak. Yes, in that dress she was his, just as she was his as long as she performed this opera, and for that matter, as long as she sang. And hearing her say that to de Chagny, her brave young suitor, was ever so sweet.

And it seemed to anger de Chagny, which was always good.

What was the young man doing now? Positioning Christine across the room…ah, he was planning on rehearsing the scene with her, to iron out her nerves. Erik shook his head. Well, at least he was being useful.

And then he began to sing.

Erik had planned on leaving as they began to practice, since the Vicomte’s mediocre attempts at acting did not interest him. But on hearing the Vicomte’s voice, he had to pause. He realized now he had never actually heard him sing before. He had only ever heard him speaking to Christine and bellowing at Erik himself from a distance. And speaking, his voice was clear but unremarkable.

Singing, it was…odd.

He did not sing like a man in the opera, like the singers Erik was used to. His voice, while full and hitting the right notes, had a gentle warmth to it that most professionals lacked. Of course, that was ridiculous. Erik just barely stopped himself from snorting. A song like this was not meant to be gentle.

Still, there was something about the way de Chagny sang that was perhaps pleasing to the ear, and it seemed to please Christine as well. For the first time today, she was smiling. Perhaps for the first time in a long while. And when she stepped towards him, she was no longer hesitant.

Erik shook his head. He couldn’t actually be enjoying hearing the Vicomte sing. After all, the boy was entirely butchering the tone of the song, creating a lullaby out of Erik’s masterpiece. It was a farce. His lip curling, he turned to leave…

And was frozen by the sound of Christine’s voice.

At first, she stumbled over the words, and he was almost relieved—even if it was bad singing, it would mean the Vicomte’s plan had failed. But as she sang, she grew confidence.

“I have come here, hardly even knowing why…”

Her voice was melodic, rich. But it was not haunted or hypnotic the way it often was when she sang with Erik. Instead, there was an almost unnoticeable air of fondness in the words. Erik turned back to see what kind of expression she would be wearing, singing with a voice like that. It was different from any way he had heard her sing before.

But when he turned around, he found she did not look as innocently fond as he had expected. Instead, he was distracted by the fact that she was currently cushioned against Raoul’s body and was rubbing herself against him like a cat.

As Erik gaped, she continued to sing in a sultrier voice than she had ever used in rehearsals, practically purring (although her enunciation was still good). It was obvious from the smirk on her face that she intended to drive de Chagny insane—and obvious by how red he was at this point that she was succeeding.

Finally the duet was over. Erik let out a sigh of relief as the two singers faced each other, both panting. Over. Hopefully he would never have to see his student rubbing herself on de Chagny again.

And then Christine, with a final gasp, grabbed de Chagny and kissed him on the lips.

And then they were undressing each other.

Erik wanted to leave but his body was frozen. Surely the modest Christine would never let a man take such liberties with her. Although with the way she was ogling de Chagny it seemed more like she was taking liberties with him.

“Don Juan, indeed,” he muttered as she pulled de Chagny’s shirt off. More like a little Juanita.

Another thing he had never seen: the Vicomte de Chagny without a shirt. It was…not bad. Christine at least had aesthetic taste in lovers. And if her Raoul was no musician or singer, he was a decent instrument. Christine was certainly coaxing some interesting noises out of him now.

They locked the door. Privacy. Right.

Surely Erik should leave now. Whatever liberties the Vicomte was going to take, there was no need for Erik to see anything so coarse.

He turned his back to the mirror but could not bring himself to walk away. De Chagny was still gasping and making those interesting noises, and now Christine was doing the same, although she was a bit more verbose: she managed two full lines of Erik’s song at one point (Lord God, that his carefully crafted lyrics were seeing this kind of use) and afterwards said a lot of scattered phrases like “more” and “yes, yes,” and “perfect, you’re so damn...”

And far too often, “Raoul, Raoul, Raoul…”

He had never heard that wretch’s name pronounced so many times in his life. At least in public she had the dignity to call him “Monsieur de Chagny” most of the time.

Raoul himself barely spoke a word, his vocabulary being reduced mostly to grunts. But at one point he did call out Christine’s name quite loudly. Erik shook his head. Too loud for someone so worried about privacy. He disapproved.

(He was also painfully hard and should probably leave but instead kept his hands clenched at his sides and continued to listen.)

At last it was over.

There was a silence that lasted a few minutes, and Erik, too curious for his own good, turned back to the mirror to see what had happened.

They had pulled apart. Raoul seemed to be wiping himself off, though his back was to the mirror. Christine must already be done with that because her petticoat was pulled down and she was walking over to her dressing table.

“Raoul, you’ve made a mess of my hair,” she said, scolding. The effect was ruined by the huge smile on her face. She picked up her brush and went to work.

“Really?” Raoul said hazily. He stumbled back and actually leaned against the full length mirror. Inches away from Erik—they could have been touching through the glass. Erik hurriedly stepped away.

“I think it looks fine,” Raoul said.

“That’s because you’re a man. Are you going to help me with my corset?”

At this point Erik finally did force himself to walk away.

* * *

 

He was back in his lair and sitting at his organ before he stopped to consider where he was going. Perhaps he should go back up. Christine had said, after all, that she would return to rehearsal after an hour had passed. Perhaps now that she had worked out her frustration she would give a better performance.

A better performance. His lip curled. As if he hadn’t already seen the best performance she would give today.

His fingers rested on the keys of the organ. Music. What he wanted was music. He played the opening notes of “Point of No Return” automatically, and winced as the sound immediately summoned memories of Raoul de Chagny holding a hand out to Christine as he began to sing in his soft and scratchy tenor.

No. He banged out a few dissonant chords to clear the thought of that voice from his head. No, no, no.

Out of his head. Ah, but there was the catch: perhaps he could forget the Vicomte easily enough, but would Christine? If he went up to watch her rehearse, would she sing with the same practiced notes she had used for all the rehearsals before, dance with the same smooth posture? Would her face be folded into the same fake smile?

He thought it would not. He thought she would be different. There would be a secret warmth in all that she did throughout the scene, a mischievous look in her eyes, a new ease in her responses to Don Juan’s songs and caresses. It would be Christine on stage, not Aminta. And the words she should be singing to Erik, she would really in her heart be singing to Raoul.

And she would be exquisite.

He banged down on the organ keys again, letting their discord fill the air, trying to shatter his vision of Christine’s gleeful face as she moved her body against Raoul’s, trying to drown out the sound of her whimpering as Raoul sucked on her neck. Sounds and faces she had never made for Erik, and oh, he could not deny that they were much more vivid and real.

Of course Erik had never tried to make Christine…whimper…or anything of the sort. He had respected her far too much for that, thought she had more dignity…but at the very least he had thought he had the ability to make her sing, and now, after all the singing she had done for him over the course of years, he found that she actually sounded more engaged when singing to some idiot fop.

It wasn’t that she was technically any better. There were no very high notes she had hit, nor any notes she had held longer than usual. It was just a sense of boldness and sincerity in her music that in retrospect had never been there when she was singing to Erik. With Erik, she sounded half entranced, barely aware of her own voice. With Raoul, every word vibrated with meaning and delight.

He scowled.

Banging on his organ was not going to help. He had discovered something today, and he would not be able to go back to ignorance, no matter how preferable it might be. He had discovered that the part of Christine that was not his was bigger than he had imagined. He had also discovered that Raoul de Chagny was a more formidable rival than he had thought, and that his sway over Christine was only growing.

“So you think you can woo Christine with your music?” Erik snorted. He picked up a piece of paper and a quill pen, the kind he used not for composing but for writing notes. “Well, if it is truly war between us, monsieur,” he muttered as he began to write. “Of course I must accept your challenge.”

* * *

 

It took him a long time to draft the notes. As always he was very careful in his phrasing, and then there were a lot of different notes for him to write. One to Andre, one to Firmin, one to Piangi, and of course, one to de Chagny himself. Couldn’t forget that one—though he found it surprisingly easy to write. To his dear rival he did not need to be quite as subtle and censored. The man’s head was like a cinder block and he doubted anything subtle would really get through.

He waited a while, and when the hour grew late he headed out to drop the notes off. But first, he had one more stop to make.

Christine’s dressing room, though this time, luckily, she was alone. Luckily for him and her and the Vicomte as well, as Erik was not sure what he would have done had he found Raoul there.

She had changed out of her costume and into more casual clothing, and was putting on her coat. Preparing herself to leave.

“Christine,” he called out quietly.

Even the faintest whisper would have been enough. Christine instantly stiffened. It was cruel indeed that Raoul should have the power to grant her fluidity and Erik only the power to stiffen her and chill her blood where Raoul warmed it, but he supposed he could still take satisfaction in the fact that he affected her at all.

“Opera ghost,” she said. “Why are you here?”

“You used to call me Angel.”

“Those times are past.”

Christine turned to face the mirror now, no doubt remembering the secret passage there even if she didn’t know how to open it (aside from Erik nobody did). She was trying to look at him, but while Erik liked to see her face, of course she failed to meet his hidden eyes.

“I saw you rehearsing today,” he said. “Tell me, do you like my opera?”

“I am doing my best to perform well.” Now she looked at the ground, afraid even to meet eyes she could not see.

“I hope you will enjoy it. You see, all of this is for you.”

“It seems to me it is to satisfy your pride,” Christine said. Instantly she flushed.

Erik chuckled. “My dear, it is not so. I only wish to bring all your talents to light. I am the only one who can do so, as you are the only one to complete me.”

“I thank you for the opportunity,” Christine said. But her hands, laced together at her waist, were trembling.

“Remember my words,” Erik said. “You sing best when I sing in you. That will not change.”

He left with that, pretending he did not already know it was a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rereading this, a lot of this chapter just kind of replays last chapter (sorry) except from Erik's perspective. I promise next chapter will move things forward a bit more...but I felt like it was important to lay the base for why Erik's beginning to have changing feelings for Raoul.  
> So hopefully that worked okay.  
> Comments and kudos would be much appreciated.


	3. Sincerely O.G.

Christine did not perhaps attach as much importance to the Phantom’s visit that night as she should have. True, he visited her far less often lately than he had before. True, it never meant anything good when he did. But she came off the incident with no injury, and she had been very used to the Angel of Music coming to visit her nightly before. She allowed herself to believe this time was like the others, the visit of a lonely and impatient man to his now estranged pupil.

Later, she would ponder his words more carefully. But the morning after his visit her day started very normally. She ate a quick breakfast, hurried down to the opera house, and was already in her makeup though not her costume when there was a knock on her door.

She bit her lip. Raoul, maybe? He was usually a bit later coming to see her, since he spent so much time with the gendarmes and with others. Perhaps the Phantom, a silly paranoid piece of her whispered. After all, he had visited her last night.

She opened the door. It was Madame Giry.

“You’re wanted in the managers’ office,” Madame Giry said. She gestured towards the hall.

“I’m still in my dressing gown.”

“We have no time for you to put on your costume. There’s been trouble.”

Christine swallowed. “A moment. Let me put on my coat.”

In the hall, she asked, “What is the trouble?” It couldn’t have been anything very loud—she would have heard another falling chandelier or piece of set design even from her room, and anything too ostentatious would have brought chorus girls to her door in flocks. Partly because she was now the leading lady and partly because of her friendship with Meg they now considered it their duty to let her know every time anything out of the ordinary occurred.

It was entirely possible, though, that the managers had somehow managed to cover a disaster up this time. Death could be very quiet, especially when it was caused by a noose. Madame Giry didn’t look upset enough for that to be the case, though.

“There have been more letters,” she said curtly, striding forward.

Christine hurried after her. “What kind? Did you deliver them?” She didn’t know the details of Madame Giry’s association with the Phantom, both Madame Giry and the Phantom being too intimidating to ask, but she did know there was something there. On occasion Madame Giry had brought her news from her “Angel”, and since there had been no public censure of Madame Giry yet, she had to assume their working relationship continued as smoothly as ever.

“Not me this time. Sometimes he likes to do the footwork himself,” Madame Giry said. “It means he’s in a mood.” She stopped at the door to the managers’ office. “They will explain things to you. I hope this is not a bad portent, and I fear it may be. If you need me I will be with the ballerinas.”

She walked off.

There was a lot of noise coming out of the managers’ office. Raised voices, mostly male, but she was sure that shrill tone was Carlotta. Timidly she raised a hand to the door and knocked.

Immediately the door was flung open. Andre. He pulled her in.

These were the people gathered in the office:

Andre, looking very flustered. With one hand he guided Christine in by the elbow. The other hand was yanking at his hair.

Firmin, sweat all over his face, mouth twisted. His hair had sweat on it too, though to be fair it always looked a little greasy. So who knew how much of that was natural? He was holding two small pieces of paper in his hands, and was scowling at them. His scowl switched targets to Christine when she entered the room, though it was not ferocious enough to be personal.

Raoul. Thank God. He was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the room and looked distinctly annoyed. He was talking as she entered but paused as soon as he saw her.

Carlotta. She looked angry. That was to say, she looked about the same as always.

And Piangi, standing slightly behind Carlotta, also as always. He had a hand on her arm which seemed to be more of a restraint than a support, since she was not leaning into the touch.

“Ah, Miss Daae,” Firmin said. “I suppose Madame Giry brought you. Do you know where she went?”

“To help the ballerinas, monsieur.”

“We do not need her,” Carlotta said. She waved a hand at Christine and Christine now noticed she was holding her own piece of paper. The notes. “Do you still say you have nothing to do with this Phantom’s plans? You are not involved in this?”

“There is no reason for this to have anything to do with Christine,” Raoul said. His voice was strained. Christine wondered how long this conversation had been going on.

“Why? Are you willing to admit it was you?”

“My darling, please,” Piangi said. “Do not blame Christine or the Vicomte. They have only tried to do well by us.”

Christine had never heard Piangi try to tell Carlotta she was wrong before. Usually, even when he was calming her down after a tantrum he was always supportive.

“What is in these notes?” she asked. “If you are going to accuse me…”

“No one’s accusing anyone,” Andre interrupted. He took one of the notes from Firmin. “Here. Let me read you mine, I think it was rather kind as far as these things go…”

Firmin snorted.

Andre read aloud: “Dear Andre,

“The play is proceeding better than I expected. Of course the ballet girls are still faltering but I expect they will be better by opening night. Christine Daae is a delight in the role of Aminta. You would do well to give her more leading roles than you have in the past.

“There is one small adjustment, however, that I wish to make to the cast. While Piangi has been putting in his best efforts as Don Juan, I fear the stress on a man of his age is too great, and I have found a better candidate. Henceforth that role will be played by Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny, though Piangi may remain as understudy. Please make arrangements about costume sizes and make sure de Chagny is prepared properly to play the role. In this subtle piece it is a part of great importance, and I would not see it misplayed.

“I have the greatest faith that you will carry out these directions. I am sure you will see great improvements in the play if you do. I am your obedient servant,

“O.G.”

Christine stared at him, and held out a hand for the letter. Taking it, she scanned over the words written in slanted script. It was all as he said. She handed it back.

“You see the Vicomte has a taste for fame,” Carlotta broke in. “He fancies himself an actor now.”

“Carlotta, please,” Piangi said. To Christine he added, “I have a letter too.” He gave her his letter.

“Dear Piangi,

“I have been watching your progress as Don Juan, a part you seem to find trying. No doubt you will be glad to hear you will not need to play this part after all. The Vicomte de Chagny will be taking your place.

“Sincerely,

“O.G.”

“It’s a lot shorter,” Christine said, returning the letter.

Piangi shrugged. “I am no manager.”

“It is an outrage,” Carlotta declared. “Changing the cast two weeks before the performance! It is a piece of foolishness and the Vicomte must take it back. He is foolish to think we can change on such short notice. As if he could take Piangi’s place,” she added scornfully.

“You have a letter too?” Christine asked Raoul.

Raoul nodded. Clearing his throat, he read aloud:

“Dear Vicomte,

“I must thank you for continuing to pay my wage, and also for your support of Miss Daae. I can tell you agree with me that she is a talent. You have good taste, though I must still object to your courting her. I have said it before: Miss Daae is not for you.

“But I am a generous man and since you seem to find such an interest in the opera, I offer you an opportunity. In two weeks time, you know I will be putting on a performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. At that performance, and at every performance subsequent until further notice, you will be playing Don Juan.

“The part of Don Juan is nuanced. You must show shades of deceit and anguish, the ugliness of mankind as well as the beauty of love and desire. I trust you find yourself up to the part?

“In truth, I do not care if you think yourself up to the part. The play debuts in two weeks. I wish to see you on that stage, monsieur, and I wish to hear you sing. If you intend to play a lover to Miss Daae in life then surely you can have no problems replicating the role onstage. If you cannot do so for a few hours, after all, one can hardly expect you will hold out for the rest of her life.

“Should you fail to follow these instructions, I must warn you consequences will be severe. You have declared war on me, but I have been lenient thus far. Do not throw yourself on my caprice.

“Sincerely,

“O.G.”

There was a long silence.

“So you see,” Andre said. “Mine can be called kind in comparison. As far as letters go.”

“You had a letter too?” Christine asked Firmin weakly. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when he shook his head in dismissal. Of course another letter probably would not have made things better or erased the threat—practically a threat to Raoul’s life, though not explicitly so—and it might have made things worse, but she still wanted some sense of what the Phantom was thinking.

“It’s rubbish,” Firmin said. “Says he wants an increase in salary for the season because he’s been contributing more than usual. Contributing my foot.”

Andre said, “We have enough left in our budget…”

“It’s still ridiculous.”

Christine crossed the room to stand by Raoul. She studied his letter over his shoulder. The signature “O.G.” was vicious—the lines of writing were wickedly slashed.

“The Phantom is angry,” she said.

“When is he not?” Raoul said. He squeezed her hand. “Though I’ll admit this is the oddest demand he has made at least of me.”

“The oddest demand you have made of us, you mean,” Carlotta said contemptuously.

“Madam, I assure you I have no interest in the part of Don Juan. Why would I want to play it, and at this late a point in rehearsals?”

“Of course you want to be with your lover. You are jealous of Piangi.”

“There is nothing to be jealous of,” Piangi broke in.

Carlotta glanced back at him, scandalized. It was the second time he had cut into one of her rants today. It was probably the shock more than anything that shut her up.

“The music is a mess,” Piangi continued. “And the part is torture. He expects you to be a hundred things in every scene. First a lover, than a deceiver, than a madman! And he cannot decide in the script whether Don Juan is a hero to all or a pariah.” He wet his lips. “I will hand the part over to you gladly, monsieur, if you are willing to take it. If you did write these letters, I find myself thankful.”

Carlotta said, “But my dear, you have been playing the lead perfectly. If anything is to save this musical…”

“It will not be me,” Piangi said firmly. “I wash my hands of it.” He touched her shoulder. “My love, there will be other plays for us.”

“Fine,” Carlotta said. “Fine. We need no involvement in this play. If the Phantom,” here she glanced meaningfully at Raoul, “chooses to absolve me of my small part as well, I will be just as happy.”

“I had nothing to do with this,” Raoul said. “Still, I suppose I must take the part.” He turned to Piangi. “You will have to help me learn the lines. I have been a spectator until now and my knowledge of the play is lacking.”

Piangi nodded. “Of course, monsieur.”

Firmin grumbled, “I suppose we must acquiesce, but Lord, two weeks before opening night...Miss Daae, you will help the Vicomte rehearse as well. Many of his scenes are with you. Practice those duets. Good Lord, an amateur on the stage…”

“There will be publicity,” Andre said hopefully. “With the Vicomte de Chagny in an opera.”

“Publicity. Yes, I suppose there will be enough of that.”

As Firmin continued to bemoan the necessity of rushing rehearsals and paying fees to a ghost, Christine quietly said to Raoul, “Do you really intend to take the part?”

“You know I’d never ask you to do anything I would not,” Raoul said. “I’ll play the role he’s given me, but he’ll see he cannot set the stage as he pleases forever.”

Christine shuddered. “I would talk to you in private.”

“I thought you might. This will last a bit longer, but I will meet you whenever it ends.”

Christine nodded and, no longer being needed, slipped out to put on her costume.

* * *

 

She did not see Raoul again for the rest of the morning. When she did, it was the Madame Giry who once again summoned her, this time to Raoul’s dressing room—since as the new lead of the show, he had temporarily inherited Piangi’s.

Raoul looked rather out of place here, amid faded posters of operas long ago and lovingly framed portraits of la Carlotta. He was only half dressed—shirt and pants and suspenders but no coat—and he sat at a dressing table similar to Christine’s. He was trying to put on foundation and was obviously at a loss.

“You’re having trouble?”

“It seems so easy when you do it, Christine.”

“Hold still.”

The foundation was powder and went on easily enough when you had the hang of it. Christine carefully powdered Raoul’s cheeks and nose, dodging out of the way when he started coughing. She was a quick worker and was soon finished.

“I look bizarre,” Raoul said, studying himself in the mirror. “Philippe’s had me wear makeup for certain occasions in the past, but this is far more. I would not like to have to do this all the time.” He frowned. “I suppose I’ll be doing this a lot for the next few weeks.”

“I suppose so,” Christine said. “Raoul, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Well, I’m sure the Phantom didn’t think it through. I’m not a good enough actor to be in his masterpiece…”

“Raoul,” Christine said. “Let’s be serious.”

Raoul sighed. “It has occurred to me this may be connected with yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Christine echoed. How could he know that the Phantom had visited her yesterday? As yet, she had told no one…though in truth there was little enough to tell.

“We rehearsed together,” Raoul said. “Remember? I played Don Juan—it was the first time we did something like that—and now he says he wants me to do it onstage. It seems an odd coincidence if it’s a coincidence.”

“You think he saw us singing together?” Christine said.

“I think he knows many of the things that go on in the opera house,” Raoul said. “He’s proved it before.” He hesitated, then clasped her hands. “I hope that I am wrong because I fear in that case he may have seen that which he should not.”

“He should not have seen us singing,” Christine said. “He’ll take that as an offense, I am certain of it.”

“No, I mean.” Raoul flushed. “I hate to think of it, but my impetuous actions the other day…he may have seen…” He made vague gestures.

Oh. “You mean he may have seen us making love,” Christine said.

“Yes.”

Of course that would worry him. Christine probably should have felt more worried about that herself, considering the Phantom’s advances on her. She probably should have been concerned for her modesty in any case. Nevertheless, “I doubt that would anger him as much. He knows we are lovers, but I think he disdains the flesh. Even when he kidnapped me he did not so much as touch me. Not in that way, at least.”

“If he is so detached, I am glad. One less danger,” Raoul said. “Still. I wish I had been more cautious…”

Christine made a face. “It was my idea.”

“I could have…”

“It’s too late for regretting that. What’s done is done,” Christine said. “But we have made him angry, Raoul. I am not sure what we can do.”

“If all he wants is to make me play the fool onstage, that is hardly anything, though I am sure there will be talk.”

“You silly boy. There is more to it than that. If he is pulling you into his opera, he wants something from you. His eye is on you.” Christine shook her head. “I do not know what he wants, but I wish you could have stayed out of this.”

“You know I was already in it. Whatever you are involved in, so am I.”

“Yes,” Christine said. “I suppose that is true.” The stage the Phantom had set, she wanted to tell him, was something more, though—in some ways often felt like a different world altogether. But she had a feeling he already knew that and did not care.

He squeezed her hands, then, apparently not satisfied at this, dropped her hands and pulled her into a hug. “In some ways I am glad,” he murmured. “I am afraid for you when you are on that stage. Now no matter what the Phantom does, I will be with you. So you will be safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot finally starts moving.  
> Actually the notes song is one of my favorites in Phantom of the Opera (I probably like it more than Music of the Night, for one, and possibly even Point of No Return), and the reprise is just as good. I love Erik's vague threats and everyone just kind of freaking out. This is more lowkey than those scenes but dang I love them.  
> Also! Piangi/Carlotta is the real ship guys. Like, forget all them other ships. Piangi/Carlotta is true love.  
> Anyways if you feel like leaving comments I will be very happy as I continue to write at a frantic pace that is gradually beginning to slow. I wrote a ton this week but I might not be as productive in the week to come. We'll see.


	4. Singing Is Hard

Two weeks before opening night was not the ideal time to join the cast of a play. Well, in some cases it probably would have been easy enough. If you already knew the part, like Christine knew Carlotta’s part in Hannibal, you could switch in easily enough—assuming, of course, you had the vocal training. But Raoul had neither vocal training nor knowledge of most of Don Juan’s lines, and the fact that the rest of the cast was doing it for the first time too didn’t exactly help.

At first they tried to walk through the play with him, and he was able to ape most of the blocking he had seen in their rehearsals before. When it came to lines and notes, however, he was utterly lost.

So on the second day of his having the role they shoved a script in his hands and turned him over to Piangi and the chorus director. And from there it was drilling lines, drilling lines, drilling lines and training his voice for hours and hours on end.

Christine was not involved but she did drop by to offer him some soothing tea for his throat at a couple points in time, which he greatly appreciated. He promised himself that when they were married, he would take his cues from her and bring her tea and soothing drinks for her throat after all her vocal practices, although for her that was every couple days.

When they were married.

Well, he was an optimist.

The chorus director was absolutely disgusted with him.

“Those who tangle with Don Juan,” he sang, trying to hit the awkwardly dissonant notes as best he could. The seduction scene at least had a song with a consistent melody to it and lyrics that made sense. Half of the musical, though, his lines seemed to have their notes scattered around at random, making sudden leaps or shifts, and they were both hard to remember and hard to articulate.

“No, no, no,” the chorus director said impatiently. “Not that far down on ‘tangle’. It’s just slightly lower than ‘who’. Listen: Those who tangle with Don Juan!”

“Those who tangle with Don Juan,” he tried again, wrestling the notes into some semblance of order.

Piangi shook his head. “That’s a hard line.”

The chorus director glared at him. “Do you have any constructive criticism for the Vicomte, Monsieur Piangi?”

Piangi shrugged.

When the chorus director had to leave, however, he took over, and he was more helpful than Raoul might have expected. At the end of the day he was not just a reputable tenor with a large ego and a passion for Carlotta—he was also adept enough in his art to teach it, though his enunciation was not amazing. At times going off what he said Raoul would get a word or two wrong, but he was patient.

“You do not find this easy, monsieur,” he said when he and Raoul were pausing for a moment.

“I’m not a singer,” Raoul said. He took another sip of the tea Christine had left when she was there last. “None of this comes easy to me.”

“Do not think it comes easily to any of this,” Piangi said. “ _Don Juan Triumphant_ ’s score is…shall we say, unique.” He glanced significantly to the side, and Raoul wasn’t sure what he meant for a minute until, oh. Raoul had only been thinking lately about the possibility of the Phantom eavesdropping on him, but Piangi had gone full blown paranoid. Well, perhaps that was for the best.

“It is not like any opera we have sung before. Not at the Opera Populaire, and I, not in my lifetime,” Piangi continued. “One could say it is a work of genius, perhaps, but the genius is rather disturbed. Dark, cynical, caustic…there are some sweet scenes but not many, and their aftertaste does not linger. Even the sweetest arias, when their themes return later in the play, become corrupted.” He paused. “Pardon me. I have a great passion for opera, and this one is rather strange. I grow excited speaking of it.”

“You make me regret taking your part.”

“No. I will not miss the part. It is too confusing. Besides, the play may be a work of genius but I do not like the feeling behind it. It is anguish, but it has no catharsis. All it can grant to a listener or an observer is misery.” Piangi exhaled and, glancing around suspiciously again, said, “Of course an opera can have many purposes. It is only that I find the part difficult for me, as I have in the past preferred simpler parts. Happy lovers and tragic figures,” he said with a smile. “Those are the best parts, Monsieur Vicomte. If you stay in the business you must find a role of a happy lover to play, for I swear it will suit you far better. Though perhaps you could try to be tragic…Look at me sadly.”

Raoul was confused. He tried to screw up his eyes and mouth a little, but found he was only squinting.

“Ah,” Piangi conceded. “Forget it. I fear you are not meant for tragedy either. Well, the Phantom thinks you will play a good Don Juan.”

Raoul shrugged. “I am trying, Monsieur Piangi.”

“Let us try again,” Piangi said. He stood up, and Raoul followed suit. “The part in Act One, where you reject Zerlinda because you have met Aminta…”

It was one of Raoul’s least favorite scenes. Carlotta was the one playing Zerlinda, a fairly minor part, and Zerlinda was hardly a sympathetic character, being portrayed more as a woman who craved attention from any source and lorded it over her lovers. Still, he was supposed to reject Zerlinda in a very caustic way, with the most degrading insults imaginable to her sexuality, appearance, family and character. Raoul wasn’t sure whether the insults were the Phantom’s true feelings for Carlotta or simply what he considered grim and cynical art, but either way he didn’t like the way they felt coming out of his mouth.

He sang along with the script. He could read music (M. Daae had taught him before his death), so at least that helped. When he finished, however, Piangi was frowning.

“I missed a note.”

“You missed several, and a couple towards the end were too long. Remember that part has to be very staccato—you are cutting her off, so bite down on the consonants. Listen.”

And Piangi sang the whole song over again.

Admittedly Piangi probably didn’t convey the mood entirely well, either. Come to think of it, he couldn’t enjoy singing a song where he was supposed to be insulting Carlotta. But his tone if not vicious had a supercilious edge, and at least he was hitting the notes.

According to Piangi, Raoul was dying on the sharps and flats. The Phantom had put in a lot of sharps and flats, for no apparent reason except to drive Raoul—and everyone else in the Opera Populaire cast, and probably the audience—completely insane.

It was at around this point that the chorus director returned. “Have you been working, gentlemen?” he said primly, with the voice of a schoolmaster who rather expected they hadn’t.

“I know the words to my rejection of Zerlinda,” Raoul said. “But my notes are off. Not to mention the mood of this piece is…”

“We are not here to work on the mood yet. First you learn the song, then you learn the character,” the chorus director said. “Run it again. I’ll tell you what you’re doing wrong. Piangi, you may take a break.”

“Monsieur, I have little else to do. I have been cut from the play.”

“Very well, stay if you like. Only I hope you aren’t influencing Monsieur le Vicomte. Your own pronunciation is atrocious.”

///…///…///

All in all, it was a thoroughly discouraging day. But he worked his way through it and when he retired to his dressing room to have one final look at the script and remove his makeup, he was thoroughly exhausted.

Christine dropped by, but she too was very busy today. They kissed. He asked her if she would join him for dinner, and she assented. And ran off to change into something more every day.

Sighing, he opened up the script to give his first song one final read-through—that one, at least, he thought he could manage at this point without messing the notes up. He was halfway through when he heard the sound of quiet laughter.

He turned. No one there. The laughter faded away.

“Phantom,” he said. There was no point in pretending he hadn’t heard. What you heard or saw of the Phantom was always deliberate, always a part of his game. He was trying to psyche Raoul out by making him doubt his senses, wonder whether the laugh had really been there or not, Phantom or imagination. But Raoul knew what he’d heard.

“Show yourself,” he demanded.

“I think not.”

The voice wafted from nowhere and everywhere. Raoul scowled, unsure what direction to face and a little surprised that the Phantom had actually answered. He had thought it more the man’s style to play a quick trick and then run—although his tricks were rarely as harmless as that made it sound.

“Very diligent,” the voice continued. “Your studying. Although not so much going out with Miss Daae later.” The voice hardened. “I thought I had made my feelings as regards that relationship clear.”

He definitely had. “My relationship with Miss Daae is my own business,” Raoul said. “She has no connection to you anymore. Leave her alone.”

“How can we be unconnected when she is my prodigy? Everything she is came from me. And she has certainly blossomed.”

“She is a genius with or without you,” Raoul said. “And she does not want you in her life anymore. Leave her alone.”

“Of late, I have. She hardly seems to appreciate my guidance.”

It was hardly leaving her alone to insist on her playing a leading role in an opera scripted specifically for her, an opera that read more than anything else like a twisted, angry love letter. Hardly leaving her alone to threaten her lover, either. Raoul said, “Is that why you came here? To tell me to leave Miss Daae? You will have to try harder than that to keep me from her.”

(It probably wasn’t wise to tempt the man, but he couldn’t resist.)

“In part, monsieur. But surely you and I have other things to talk about as well.” The voice sounded amused. “Since you have declared war on me you can hardly expect me to stay away.”

“Come out of hiding and we can settle that matter very quickly.”

“Indeed we could,” the voice said. “For I notice you do not have your sword with you.”

Damn it. He’d left his sword…where again? He wasn’t sure, probably in the managers’ office or near the stage. He wasn’t used to working with this dressing room, and he’d had to stop by the costume designers where he’d had to take nearly all his clothes off earlier too, so that might well be where it was. Stupid of him not to keep a weapon nearby when the Phantom’s interest in him of late was growing. Very stupid, but it was too late now to do anything about it. He glanced over to the corner where Piangi had keepsakes of various plays. There was a fake sword there—if worse came to worst, he’d have to see if it was made of wood or metal.

A laugh, louder than the one he had heard originally. “But I have no desire to kill you just now. My apologies. I’m afraid that particular match will have to be postponed at least another thirteen days. You see,” the voice said. “I need you for my opera.”

“Of course. Your opera.” Raoul rolled his eyes. Piangi would have had a fit, seeing him disrespect the Phantom’s opus like this to his (currently hidden but no doubt close by) face. That said, Piangi still had a chance of avoiding the Phantom’s wrath, whereas Raoul was certain whatever chance he might have had of that as the new patron had ended the first night he talked to Christine.

“ _Don Juan Triumphant_ ,” the voice pronounced. “And do you like my opera, Monsieur Vicomte?”

“I must confess I do not,” Raoul said.

“Ah! I am surprised. After all, you have been putting so much effort towards its success. Indeed you spent nearly the entire day practicing. And before now, you have been diligent as well…with the gendarmes.”

The voice suddenly seemed to come from directly behind him. Raoul whirled around—to meet, of course, nothing but air.

“Stationing them here and there throughout the opera house, instructing them so carefully. Of course security is a priority for any show of great importance. I’m flattered you put so much care into the preservation of mine.”

“Is that why you placed me on stage?” Raoul asked. “You want me distracted? You are afraid you might get caught?”

“Afraid? Well, I mean no offense, monsieur,” the voice said. “Your measures could stop any human man, I do not doubt. But I am a mere opera ghost. What was it you said? Ah yes. To keep me away, you will have to try harder than that.”

“If you are not afraid why would you place me where I cannot fight you? I think you lie, monsieur.”

“Your shows of arms do not interest me. If you truly want to fight, perform well,” the voice said. “Music tests a man’s mettle far more surely than steel.”

Raoul gritted his teeth. In some ways, though, you had to admit it was fair. It was like a duel—Raoul had issued the challenge, so the Phantom was choosing the time, place and weapon. The time and place would be _Don Juan Triumphant_. The weapon would be singing—a weapon with which Raoul had unfortunately little skill.

As if guessing his thoughts, the Phantom said, “It certainly tested your mettle today.”

That was no lie.

The voice continued, “Were I you I would listen less to the advice of Piangi. He has certain merits but his singing is ultimately mechanical and thus unfitting for an opera such as mine.” And now the Phantom was simply preening.

“I will take what help is offered,” Raoul said. “Since you have thrust this task on me at such an inopportune moment…”

“And if I offered my help?”

Silence.

“What is it you mean?”

“I have an interest in seeing my play go smoothly, monsieur. If you will accept, I will take you on as my pupil, at least for the next thirteen days. There is no one who can teach you this music better than its composer.”

Raoul laughed. “You think I would accept such an offer?”

“You said you would take any help.”

“My apologies, monsieur, it seems I misspoke. I have little interest in an angel for my tutor.” He pronounced the word “angel” with as much disdain as possible. The trick the Phantom had played on Christine was unconscionable—only another reason Raoul would be far happier when the Phantom was either captured or dead. “Our chorus director can teach me just as well.”

“You compare that man to me?” the voice said, growing louder. “That piddling, mediocre fraud of a piano basher? To me!”

“Yes, I think I did.”

“He will teach you nothing! Most likely, he will ruin your basics and you will never sing well again in your life. Monsieur, you are performing in my opera!”

“If the thought horrifies you that much, you can recast Piangi,” Raoul said. “Either way, I will never learn from you.”

A long moment of silence. Raoul tightened his jaw. He’d proved till now that if the Phantom really forced the issue, he would probably acquiesce—that much could be taken from his acceptance of the role in the first place, and his support of _Don Juan Triumphant_ being performed at the Phantom’s demand. The Phantom had proved his willingness to kill if he didn’t get what he wanted, and Raoul was hardly going to risk that merely because the thought of learning anything from the Phantom was distasteful.

He really hoped the Phantom wouldn’t press the issue.

(Why on Earth would he want to tutor Raoul anyway?)

“You will continue learning from the chorus director and Piangi,” the Phantom said at last. “But if you are still singing as poorly as you do now by the end of the week, we will have words. Until then, Monsieur Vicomte.”

“Then are you taking your leave of me?”

There was no reply, which probably meant yes.

Raoul realized he was still holding the score open to the same song. He closed it and put it down on the dressing table, then picked it up again. He would have to study it tonight at home. There was no help for it.

He had one week to turn into an opera singer and another six days before he performed onstage.

“You know,” he said to what was probably by now empty air. “I truly don’t believe you thought this through.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were like two things I really wanted from this fic, and the first was Christine getting to enjoy her sick dress and the second was Raoul being bad at singing.  
> I mean he's actually pretty good but um. Not really a professional opera singer. Lols. (At least Piangi's trying to help?)  
> Also, you may notice I've updated this fic to show that I estimate it will be around 13 chapters. This is based on a rough outline and may change, but yeah. It should be about that long. (How did I get myself into this?)  
> Anyways any comments would be appreciated, I'm beginning to slow down my frenzy of writing but it's still going fairly well. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	5. Consider the Embroidery

Erik, of course, was as busy as anyone else.

Well, he had less rehearsing to do, since he was not officially a member of the cast. He had certain plans that might change that—his original scheme had involved his stepping in to play Don Juan opposite Christine on opening night—but he wasn’t sure whether he would follow through on them now. Although he had cast Raoul as Don Juan in something like a fit of temper and had no real desire to see the boy become a new phenomenon like Christine (as if he had the capacity!) it seemed somewhat cowardly to cast him and then not allow him to perform. It would make it look like Erik was afraid Raoul would outshine him. Which was obviously not the case.

If Erik could have ever imagined Raoul singing better than him (which was ridiculous) the past five days or so had proved him wrong. Although Raoul was beginning to at least get the notes and words right on the majority of the song after some intensive coaching, his intonation and projection were still terrible. Pathetic.

Raoul would certainly need to work harder if he was going to become a decent opera singer within the next two days. If not, Erik was ready to step in. He had several ideas of how to force the Vicomte to accept his tutelage for at least the last week. If necessary, he could always go to the last resort and kidnap him for the entire week, depriving him of sleep and food unless he worked on his singing.

This was his most extreme plans. He had other, more practical options that did not involve isolating the lead member of the cast until the day the production opened. Still, if necessary…

Of course, Erik did not wish to do any such thing. He did not even wish to teach Raoul. Because he was very, very busy.

After all, even if he did not technically have a role in production—he was not the director or the chorus director or a member of the cast or crew, or even a manager though he certainly would have done better than those idiots Andre and Firmin—the cast and crew themselves were so incompetent that they required constant supervision.

So Erik was watching them very closely.

When the cast started to lag in their singing rehearsals he would play the score on his organ twice as loudly as necessary until their singing gained energy out of desperation. When the managers seemed on the verge of making stupid decisions, such as trying not to sell as many tickets to Don Juan Triumphant or not advertise much because they were sure it would end in disaster, he sent them politely corrective notes. When the costume crew started making Raoul’s costume and were taking his measurements, he…watched. Because they might do it wrong. They might measure incorrectly.

It had nothing to do with the fact that in order to give his measurements Raoul had to take off all his clothes except his pants and socks. Erik had seen the Vicomte shirtless before and that had been quite enough to satisfy his curiosity. Disturbing, really, being forced to look at Raoul’s sculpted chest. The Vicomte didn’t give the impression of being particularly muscular when he had all his clothes on, rather looking somewhat thin instead, perhaps a sign of his youth. But even when he just took off his coat, you could get a glimpse of some reasonably sized biceps, which became very apparent when he wasn’t wearing a shirt either.

If after observing the measurements Erik spent half an hour observing his own muscles in his mirror in the basement for comparison, it was because of Christine. Sooner or later she was bound to decide to be with Erik, and whether things went in a…shirtless?...direction or not, it would have been nice to know if he met her standards. Apart from his face, he thought he was pretty good. His abs were actually more defined than the Vicomte’s, and probably would have impressed him.

Not that the Vicomte would ever see Erik without his shirt on. No, Erik had always made sure he was well dressed for his public appearances, coat and cape and hat and definitely shirt. You could not appear vulnerable in front of people who already hated you. And if Raoul didn’t hate Erik, if he wasn’t Erik’s enemy, then no one was.

(He probably would have been impressed by Erik’s muscles, Erik decided. Erik’s muscles were satisfactory.)

In any case, the costuming department ended up doing just fine with Raoul’s measurements, though they decided in the end to make him entirely new costumes instead of resizing Piangi’s—the sizes were so different that resizing would have actually taken longer if they wanted to maintain certain elements of the design. So it would be a bit longer before Raoul’s costumes were actually ready. Inefficient. But Erik supposed it was better that they take as much time as they needed. After all, everything about his opera had to be perfect. It wouldn’t do for even one costume to be off.

So Erik had to check up on the costume department now and again, just to make sure they were doing a good job, which they seemed to be—and of course the parts of the crew that were working on set. He thought they could stand to add some more gold paint to the backdrop but who was he to criticize? (Nevertheless, he did send them a note with the polite suggestion, making sure to emphasize that it was only a suggestion. The suggestion was taken.)

He also paid attention to how Christine’s rehearsals were going. As he had hoped, she was improving steadily—and as he had both hoped and feared, her voice took on an entirely different tone every time she rehearsed together with the Vicomte. This was not often, since Piangi and the chorus director monopolized much of the Vicomte’s time. But the few times they did run through scenes together, she seemed to become a different woman. Her posture became both relaxed and sinuous, and whenever she touched Raoul she practically caressed him, a huge change by itself since with Piangi she had barely seemed to know where to put her hands. But the biggest difference was in her voice, which always sang out clearer and warmer whenever Raoul was onstage, even in the scenes where they were only supposed to share animosity or disdain.

Erik could hardly wait to see how they would work together when Raoul was ready for a full run through.

But all in all, he was very busy. So while he made time to listen in on the Vicomte’s voice training a couple times, and he did attend his rehearsals with Christine, in general the Vicomte barely crossed his mind at all. Why, Erik could go hours without thinking about him.

Whole hours.

* * *

 

On Thursday, when the opening performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_ was only a week and a day away, Madame Giry showed up in the lair. Erik saw her coming, of course—although she knew where to find one of the boats he used to make his way across the water, her approach was still not subtle. There was no real way to subtly approach someone in a coracle. So he played some welcoming music for her—happier music than he usually performed, at least, even if it was still somewhat dramatic—and went down to the shore to greet her, pulling up the grating to let her in.

“Madame Giry,” he said. “Have you brought me food?”

She had. In a small sack, she had brought him two bottles of wine, two loaves of bread, a hunk of cheese, some smoked meat, a couple apples and a head of cabbage. It wasn’t the kind of food most opera workers would have for dinner, more a conglomeration of raw materials, but Erik welcomed it. This was the sort of fare he had eaten for the past couple decades of his life, and once again: simple pleasures. He cut himself some bread and cheese (hungrily; he’d been running out of food the past couple days) and offered some to Madame Giry.

“Many thanks, Monsieur,” she said. “I have already eaten.”

It was late in the evening, past nine, time that upstairs the rehearsals had already ceased and Christine was probably already out to dinner with the Vicomte. So Erik was not overly surprised. Nevertheless he asked her to sit down with him while he ate—he had to take advantage of company when it came—and she agreed.

“We have not spoken at length for some time,” Erik said.

In truth, it had been weeks, maybe months, since they had said more than a few sentences to each other. Madame Giry acted as his accomplice lately but past were the days when she was his only companion, the only person he cared about. He had stopped seeing her as his only connection to the world when he started teaching Christine, and since then they were more distant, even now that Christine had begun to distance herself from him as well. Yet, he could not want to go back to the time before Christine no matter how she acted. Madame Giry had always been a cold companion, sympathetic but never understanding. Christine, even when she neither sympathized with him nor wanted to, had a heat to her Madame Giry had always lacked.

“We have not,” Madame Giry said. Her jaw was tight. “You have been acting irregular.”

“You want to discuss _Don Juan Triumphant_ now?” He was surprised it had taken her this long to ask about it. When he sent the original notes out to the managers and actors about how he wanted it performed, he had expected questions, maybe even censure. But she had born the notes silently, and never questioned his actions in the matter at all.

Madame Giry shook her head. “Your opera is not surprising to me.”

“It seems to surprise everyone else.”

“Monsieur, I have seen you sitting at your organ composing for many years now,” Madame Giry said. “Sometimes in such a frenzy as to barely notice my presence, sometimes slow and ponderous, sometimes frustrated, sometimes satisfied. I always knew there would come a day when you would want to share your art with the world. You are a genius, and you are an artist.”

Erik swallowed. Madame Giry, while always his silent support, had rarely ventured so far as to compliment him to his face. It felt…he was unsure. He liked it. He was glad the mask covered at least half his face, for he was not sure he wanted her to know.

“It is an odd piece,” she acknowledged after a brief silence. “But then, you are an odd person.” She smiled, a stiff smile. “When I watch it, I feel it contains many truths.”

And Erik smiled back.

Abruptly, Madame Giry frowned. “I am not sure the ballet girls are up to the choreography. I have been working with them but you know they can grow very lax.”

“I am sure you have been doing your best.”

“At least we know Christine will play an admirable Aminta,” Madame Giry said. “Would I be wrong in assuming she in part inspired the role?”

Erik shrugged. “There was an Aminta in my score before I met Miss Daae.” Though it was true that over the past couple years, he had vastly changed how he wrote the part of Aminta—especially in the past couple months. Aminta had changed from a coquette to an innocent, still with an immense sexual power and charisma but half unconscious of it. This, he thought. This was the kind of woman who would ensnare a Don Juan as no deliberate flirt ever could, no matter how beautiful. The mystery that arose from a woman who only half knew her power over you but wielded it to deadly effect, well meaning but lethal nonetheless. A woman like that could trap even the most hardened man. Erik, indeed, had thought himself hardened to women’s charms before meeting Christine.

And when he wrote Aminta ascending from innocent girl to a woman ready to take a lover, aware of her own power, he found himself hoping even more sincerely than his Don Juan that the transformed woman would want him in the end.

“Christine will do well,” Madame Giry repeated, bringing Erik’s mind back to the present. “Some of your other choices do confuse me.”

“Indeed? I admit my directions for the backdrop may have been questionable…”

“I am more confused about your choices regarding the Vicomte de Chagny,” Madame Giry cut in. “The vocally untrained aristocrat you have decided to give the leading role.” She raised her eyebrows.

“Did you expect me to leave the role with Piangi?” Erik asked.

“Considering you were perfectly fine with him until last week,” Madame Giry said. “Yes.”

“After consideration, I decided the Vicomte was a better match for the role,” Erik said.

“Monsieur, even with the chorus director’s best efforts there is no way to transform an amateur into a professional in the next week.”

“Well, that is hardly my fault,” Erik said. “I offered to teach him but he refused.” Now Madame Giry was staring at him. “I agree. It was very ungrateful.”

“I see you have strong feelings on this matter,” she said. “Very well. We can hope he will improve.”

Erik smiled thinly. “I will test his progress in two days. We will see if he is worthy of the part.”

* * *

 

Erik was pleased when the costuming department finally finished Raoul’s costumes on Friday. They delivered all of them to Raoul in one fell swoop, the main costume manager’s chest a little puffed at having all of them done with such short notice. Though, costume managers always did look a little proud when presenting the results of their work. And it always looked rather impressive when a stout woman walked into a dressing room with about five different costumes in her arms, though in parts—the seduction scene costume, all black, was its own costume, but for most of the rest of the play Raoul at least wore the same pants. But there were various shirts, coats, even a cloak at one point and a pair of very tall boots as well as a simple pair of black shoes.

The costuming department had followed Erik’s directions reasonably well. He would have liked more embroidery on one very fancy coat Raoul wore in Act One, but he supposed it was unreasonable to expect the tailor to cram as much embroidery as had been on Piangi’s coat onto a considerably smaller back. And Erik was always a very reasonable man.

He half wanted to watch Raoul try the costumes on for the first time—just to see if they would fit—but contented himself with waiting for the full run through that evening, the first rehearsal when Raoul would be wearing all the costuming and makeup. After all, what really mattered was what it would all look like from the audience, and the audience wouldn’t be seeing Raoul up close and personal.

In Box Five, he watched the rehearsal carefully. Yes, the clothes fit very well. He had hoped they would make Raoul blend into his part better, turn him into more of a Don Juan, but they had not. He still looked very much like himself, he just looked very good and a bit less out of place with the rest of the cast.

The black looked particularly good on him, as did a certain red outfit he wore in Act Two. Unfortunately the embroidery Erik had requested on the coat for Act One barely showed up at a distance because it was white on gold and much of it very thin. An oversight.

Erik would have said, if anyone had asked, that the coat really did need to be white and gold because it was for a scene where Don Juan was playing the innocent so he needed to be wearing the colors of a hero. It was very symbolic. Erik would have said he didn’t mind if the audience didn’t catch all of the intricacies of the costume he had requested—all of the intricacies of the play in its totality, for that matter—because he knew what the meaning of it all was and his art wasn’t necessarily for the masses. Very little good art was. He would have said this if anyone had asked and it would have been very satisfying but no one did ask (obviously, Box Five was empty other than him) so it annoyed him for the rest of the play.

Fine then. He decided he would have to go the Vicomte’s dressing room and see the coat up close to see if the embroidery was good enough that the audience was really missing anything. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was. He wasn’t sure which outcome would annoy him more.

The Vicomte’s dressing room was not as accessible as Christine’s. It had a peep hole in the wall that it was possible to look and speak through, and it had a trap door in a corner of the floor that was covered with boxes of theater odds and ends. This had not bothered Erik back when it was Piangi’s—he had no reason to want to drop in on Piangi. Now it was slightly more annoying. He’d have to look in through the peep hole, of course, but it was smaller than he would have liked and the angle it looked in on barely showed the dressing table, and nothing at all of the other half of the room that was further from the door.

Well, he would have to make do.

When he got to the dressing room, Christine had beaten him there. She must have followed Raoul back when they left the stage—Erik didn’t know, he hadn’t been paying attention. She was still wearing the seduction scene dress and while Raoul was not wearing the outfit for that scene, instead wearing a more subtle outfit he wore towards the end of the show, it still gave Erik shivers. They were standing next to Raoul’s dressing table, and it was very reminiscent from a similar night the week before.

“You looked the part of a Don Juan today,” Christine said teasingly. “Ah, when I saw you in that red suit! In fact I nearly swooned.” She put a hand dramatically to her forehead.

Only teasing, Erik told himself, biting his lip. He’d seen her when Raoul had entered the stage for that scene and she had done nothing of the sort.

“The pants are too tight,” Raoul complained.

“I rather appreciated them.”

“The shirts are also too tight. When they took my measurements I thought they’d leave me room to breathe.”

“Monsieur Vicomte, you are very spoiled,” Christine said. “This is opera. You will have to get used to it.”

Raoul sighed. “I will be glad when this is over.”

Christine put a hand to his cheek. “You did well tonight.” Then, gently taking Raoul’s hand, she pulled him to his feet.

Erik found he had nearly stopped breathing. Yes, it was an exact mirror—and any moment now Christine would start to sing…

But she did not. Instead, she lifted Raoul’s hand to her lips and kissed it. Then, with a smile, she said, “I think perhaps we should not go out tonight. You look tired.”

“This week has worn on me. But if I am with you, I can…”

“No. Get some sleep. That is a far better remedy,” Christine said. “I will see you tomorrow, my sweet don.”

She left, and Raoul, sighing, turned back to his score. Still studying. Well, Erik had agreed not to test him until tomorrow, so there was little here to see.

He was already halfway back to his lair by the time he remembered his intention to look at the embroidery, and going back hardly seemed worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is slowly devolving into a rom com, isn't it? Okay, not quite, but I possibly go a bit hard on Erik when it comes to his denial. He's in a lot of it. Also his POV is kind of hard to write in general, probably the hardest out of the three. (The easiest, by the way, is definitely Christine.)  
> Anyways, this chapter is more of an interlude than anything else, but you get Madame Giry, so there's that.   
> Comment and tell me what you think, or hit me up at convenientalias.tumblr.com . :)


	6. It's Meant to be Ironic

Over the past week, Christine had perhaps grown too relaxed.

Of course the visit from the Phantom—and those notes, especially that dreadful one to Raoul—had been stressful and threatening, and for a few days she had been very afraid, more afraid even than she had been since the whole fiasco at the masquerade ball when she first agreed to take part in this opera. But the thing about having Raoul in the opera was that Raoul was in the opera: he ended up spending a significant portion of rehearsal time with Christine. And it was difficult to remember that they were all under close scrutiny and in grave danger when Raoul was there, with his bright smile and his growing complaints about the score. He was too distracting.

So Christine had let her guard down. She had even allowed herself to enjoy the last few days of rehearsal, seeing Raoul experience some of what for her was everyday life, seeing how he sometimes failed at it and sometimes turned out to be unexpectedly good. She fell into a pattern of coming to Raoul’s dressing room after rehearsals instead of letting him come to hers, and talking over how practice had gone, the daily problems and the daily triumphs. It was a good pattern. She almost thought that when _Don Juan Triumphant_ was over (and she was so relaxed that she actually did think about what life might be like then) she might miss this. Raoul had never been so much a part of her life before.

Saturday evening, after a long rehearsal that would be the last before the final week (Sunday they had off for once because things were going surprisingly smoothly), she headed down to Raoul’s room as usual. But as she approached it, her step slowed, and she stopped outside his door.

Inside, someone was singing an aria of Don Juan’s.

Of course, someone was always singing at the opera house somewhere, and lately Raoul was constantly practicing. But this was not Raoul’s voice. It was richer, fuller. It hit both the low notes and the high notes with greater ease, and had a sort of a purr underlying the briefer notes, the smugness of a singer who knew what he was doing was impressive. It was a voice Christine recognized all too well.

“Angel,” she whispered.

Instantly her hands flew to her mouth, clamping it shut. She half expected the Phantom to appear before her, summoned by his name. Instead, the singing inside the dressing room did not even pause. He had not heard her invoke him. Of course she should not have expected him to—time and time again, Raoul had reminded her that the Phantom was only human. Still, it was jarring to hear his voice only through the door, to hear him singing his music for somebody else. For so long he had been to her a voice only she could hear, an angel that visited only her. And his influence spreading about the opera house had been odd, but one expected as much from a supernatural being. This, though. Him visiting someone in secret, someone who was not Christine, and sharing his song with them—it did not feel right.

Somehow, it felt like betrayal.

The singing finally drew to a triumphant close, and there was a brief silence.

It was broken by Raoul’s voice, trembling but defiant. “No one has claimed you cannot sing, monsieur.”

“If one did,” the voice of the Angel said calmly. “I would know them for a liar, and they would not live very long.”

Christine swallowed. Her hand grasped the door knob. She could not turn it.

“Your threats are wasted. What do you want?” Raoul said. “I cannot imagine you have come this far merely to serenade me.”

The voice said, “We agreed I would see how you had progressed in a week’s time. Now my opera debuts shortly. I would see if you have mastered the part, monsieur. I have given a demonstration of how the part should be sung. Now, let us see if you can match me.”

Oh. Oh! Christine drew a quick breath. She had been so surprised by the Phantom coming to sing to anyone but her that she had not thought about why he might sing to Raoul specifically, and why that particular song—a song where Don Juan mused about life’s vagaries and stated his philosophy of Epicurean delight with no commitment, a song which in some ways epitomized the main character’s person. This, of course, was the song that meant the most to the character of Don Juan, even more than his duet with Aminta. Of course the Phantom would use it as a challenge to Raoul, claiming he could not play the part—though heavens knew Raoul had never asked for the part in the first place. It was an odd way to challenge Raoul, but to the Phantom’s obsessed mind it might have seemed natural.

This was not good. Christine bit her lip. Raoul could sing most songs in _Don Juan Triumphant_ without much trouble now, though his technical abilities still did not match those of most professional tenors and his spirit was not truly in it. But if there were two songs that still gave him trouble, they were his song of rejection to Zerlinda and this particular aria.

Of course the Phantom loved to play games he was likely to win. Raoul, in a match like this…it was hopeless. With a burst of will power, Christine opened the door.

The only man visible in the room was Raoul. He was standing in the center, with his arms crossed over his chest. Seeing Christine, he started slightly, then beckoned her over. She went to his side and wrapped an arm around his back.

“Christine,” the voice said, echoing and bell like as ever. “I did not expect you.”

“Then I do not know why you were in my fiancé’s dressing room.”

“Monsieur de Chagny and I have business.”

Raoul said, “The Phantom wishes to see if I am able to sing my part properly.” Which she had already figured out.

“He can watch the rehearsals, then,” she said in what she hoped was a withering voice but was still a little shaky. “As he seems to have been doing already.”

“From what I have seen in rehearsals,” the Phantom said. “Your lover is underprepared. Still, you need not worry yourself. If he is inadequate, I will not harm him. Only I expect he will need more assistance to prepare in time, which I am willing to offer.”

Christine glanced at Raoul. This was odd. Offering to help Raoul…well, help offered by the Phantom could hardly be innocent.

Raoul said, “I believe I can perform the song to his satisfaction.”

Christine almost shook her head. Was he mad? He had heard the Phantom singing only minutes before, with that haunting, hypnotic voice that no one could truly match or emulate, not even Christine who had learned from him for years. And now he thought he would try to do as well. But she couldn’t stop him. That would be taking the Phantom’s side. So instead she put a hand on his arm and said, “Of course you can.”

He smiled.

And then he began to sing.

Christine was tense, but she allowed herself to absorb his music anyhow. His voice was, as always, warm and pleasant. It was warmed up too this time, with all the singing he had been doing today. She was never onstage for this song, so she heard it a bit less than some of his others.

Of course sounding pleasant when talking about the fact that you believed every man had to look out for himself, women were whores, fate was a crapshoot and pleasure was the only thing worth pursuing was a bit…

But at least he was hitting the notes right.

And, Christine thought to herself proudly, his projection had certainly gotten better. She had no doubt anyone in the hall would have been able to hear him. This, now, was the kind of singing that filled an opera hall. This was singing done properly. Almost on the level of a professional.

For the Phantom, though, that might not be enough.

When he was done, Raoul took a deep breath and had opened his mouth to speak when the Phantom said, “Again.”

“Excuse me?”

“Again. This time, your voice must have more malice. Do you wish to sound like you are pleased at the state of this world?”

“It’s ironic,” Christine broke in.

Pause. “What?” the Phantom said.

“It’s meant to be ironic. He sings pleasantly to create a dissonance with the harshness of the notes and the lyrics,” Christine said. “Of course it is meant to make the audience consider that he is never as pleasant as he seems.”

Raoul was gaping at her. She squeezed his arm, and he quickly readjusted his face and nodded.

 A dry laugh emanated through the room. It was not the booming, menacing sort of laugh the Phantom had used at the Hannibal performance, but it still made Christine shiver. “My dear, I find it doubtful that Monsieur de Chagny is capable of that sort of subtlety.”

“If you don’t think he’s capable of subtlety,” Christine said. “Why did you pick him for the part?”

“Why did you pick him as a lover?” the Phantom said. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “I can accept that an actor may choose to play a part differently from how the director prefers, but I will not tolerate incompetence. Monsieur, if you would sing the piece again I will reconsider it from that point of view.”

Raoul gave Christine a look and took a deep breath. Once again, he began to sing.

Clearly, he was trying to add more subtle menace and irony than he had employed the first time, trying to match Christine’s description. His voice became a bit more silky, a bit more sarcastic. Well, it wasn’t bad. Christine had seen him succeed at sarcasm before, especially when dealing with the managers, but caustic bitterness and outright anger were not his forte. This was closer, though in some places she still thought he sounded all too sweet. A Don Juan she wanted to sweep into her arms and comfort, whispering, “You must not worry so about the world, my dear. Really it is not all that bad, and with me at your side it will be better.”

This was not supposed to be a song that brought Don Juan sympathy. Piangi singing it had always brought an aura of cold rage and contempt towards the universe, and had always made Christine cringe. She supposed, though, that no matter how she tried she would never be able to help but sympathize with any character played by Raoul.

When he was done, this time the silence lasted a bit longer.

Raoul asked, “How did I do?” He sounded perhaps a bit too eager. Seeming to realize this, he cleared his throat and said, “I think my interpretation of the character is…”

“Truly strange,” the Phantom said. “But I suppose not abominable.”

Christine sighed and leaned against Raoul. Well. Things were looking up.

“If you sing like that in performance, it will be acceptable but not good,” the Phantom said. “I expect my opera to be excellent. Rehearse.”

Raoul said, “I have been already.”

“And Miss Daae,” the Phantom said. “That goes for you as well.”

Christine straightened. “Of course. I have been practicing day and night. Do you wish me to demonstrate?”

There was no response.

“Phantom?” Raoul said.

Still nothing.

Christine cleared her throat. “Angel?”

They allowed the silence to sit for another long minute before relaxing. The Phantom was gone…or if he wasn’t, at least it seemed he would not harass them any longer.

“Christine,” Raoul said. He made to kiss her, but she pushed him off.

“We don’t know that he’s not still watching.”

“Let him watch.”

“I’d rather not right now,” Christine said. “You must tell me, Raoul. When did he arrive? Before I came in, what did he say to you?”

“He said that the time had come to test me and that he would demonstrate the part first.”

“That the time had come,” Christine echoed. She frowned.

“He had come to me a week before,” Raoul said. “And he said he would come about now. I think that is what he meant, which is nothing so ominous…”

“He came to you before? You have seen him before?”

“I still have not seen him. He only spoke to me as he did tonight. On that occasion he seemed displeased with me,” Raoul said. “Yet not as displeased as one might think. He only suggested I stop listening to the chorus director and Piangi, and that he might teach me instead.”

“And you did not see fit to tell me this?”

“He did not hurt me. He did not even try to hurt me, and he barely threatened. I thought it strange,” Raoul said. “It hardly suits his modus operandi.”

Christine swallowed. She sank into the seat at Raoul’s dressing table, which was already turned towards the center of the room for who knew what reason. “I rather fear it does.”

“What do you mean? Until now, he has always either sent notes, created chaos or killed mercilessly. He doesn’t contact people in private, and certainly not in any way that could be construed as…” Raoul shook his head. “Well, perhaps not friendly but at least neutral.”

“You are wrong,” Christine said. “There is one person he has contacted in private quite often. He used to speak to her every night.” Her mouth felt dry. “When I heard him singing in your room, he sounded like an angel again.”

“Christine,” Raoul said softly. “I am sorry if it made you feel afraid.”

Christine shook her head fiercely, curls bouncing off her shoulders. “You understand nothing! I am telling you he has not offered before to tutor anyone but me. That, and offering you a part in his play…how can you not see it? His obsession has transferred to you as well as me.”

Raoul gave her a long look. Then, he let out a deliberate laugh.

“Raoul.”

“I’m sorry. But it’s ridiculous. The Phantom has hated me ever since I came here. And now you say that this is…what, an expression of love? The way he claims to love you? It does not seem very likely, Christine. I am sorry, but I cannot believe it.”

Likely. Christine’s lips tightened. When had the Phantom’s obsession ever been as logical as that? She could easily remember a night now months past, when he had crawled towards her on the floor, on his hands and knees, and said to her in a desperate whisper that fear could turn to love. He had seemed to believe that. Then why could not hate turn to love just as easily? Or could he be obsessed with Raoul out of animosity alone? Either way, it was certain now, to her at least, that he had developed a fixation.

“It seems far more likely that his offer of tutelage is a trap,” Raoul said.

“Of course it’s a trap,” Christine said. She clenched her hands into fists. “It’s always a trap, but not the way you think. What he wants is to get into your mind and change you.” She looked up at him. “Tell me he’s not succeeding.”

“How could he?”

“Tell me, then, that you took no pleasure earlier out of hearing him sing.”

Raoul flushed. “As a patron of the arts…”

“Tell me you did not feel compelled to please him,” Christine said. “That you sang only because you felt a threat. Tell me that. I would love to believe it.”

“Well,” Raoul said. “Any man has his pride.”

“And you would have felt as compelled performing to anyone?”

“He is my rival,” Raoul insisted. “Besides which, he is the composer. I should think he would know if anyone whether I am doing well, and I have been worried…”

Oh, Raoul.

Christine stood. “You have been singing very well, and you will do well for the performance. But you will not do it for him. You must do it for me, do you understand?”

“Christine?”

“Do not imagine him when you sing. Picture me instead. Sing for my approval,” Christine said. “Otherwise, you will be lost.”

“I do not even understand what you mean.”

“Raoul.” Christine took his hand in hers. “Will you promise me?”

He smiled and squeezed her hand back. “I will promise you anything.” Leaning down, he kissed her forehead. “Now, shall we go to dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christine is woke.  
> Anyways, I've been distracted from writing this fic by school and by the fic I'm writing for the Small Fandom Big Bang, but I'm still pretty steadily forging forwards, so don't worry. There should still be steady updates.  
> Next chapter is the big opening night. Looking forward to it?


	7. Wait, There Are People Watching This?

Opening night arrived all too soon.

It was a Friday. Raoul’s routine for the past couple weeks had been to arrive early at the opera house, talk a bit to the gendarmes, then head up to his dressing room, dress and put on makeup, and rehearse for nearly the entire day. Today, however, was somewhat different.

Today, he felt, would change everything. The Phantom was bound to come to the play tonight, and the last time he had proclaimed his presence at a play he had both killed a man and brought down a chandelier, not to mention he had made Carlotta such a laughingstock that people in high society still talked about it even now. Raoul didn’t think the Phantom intended to make Christine a laughingstock, at least, but it was altogether too likely that he intended much worse.

And so Raoul once again spent most of the morning with the gendarmes but this time it was different. He was summarizing instructions, hearing them give their final plans, trying to perfect them while still aware that more than likely the Phantom could hear every word they were saying. They wouldn’t catch him by surprise. Raoul found it dubious, at this rate, that they would catch him at all.

They had to, of course. For Christine’s peace of mind. For the good of the opera house, as well, an opera house where he was now patron—he couldn’t take his responsibility to them lightly. They had to catch the Phantom.

Frankly, Raoul hoped they would just so he would finally be able to see the man’s face and ascertain once and for all that he even was a man.

The gendarmes were more confident than he. They would have guns and batons on them, they told him. They would keep an eye out for anyone wearing a mask or acting suspicious. Some would position themselves at the doors and even low windows to make sure no one came in or out who didn’t have a ticket or personal business that was known to the managers.

This was a little silly, of course. The Phantom haunted the opera house. He wouldn’t be wandering in from the snow. But one did what one had to, and Raoul supposed they were proper precautions.

Then Raoul was called in with the rest of the cast for warm-ups and run throughs of a few last scenes that they usually had trouble with. And then he was sent off to his room to get in his starting costume and prepare himself for the show. It started at seven, and now the hour was four. Three hours.

And what was left to do? He ate some dinner—his cook had insisted on his bringing food in with him tonight. He found he was hungrier than he would have expected on such a momentous night. Well, he might need the fuel before this was over. If the Phantom tried to attack Christine…if he tried to harm her…

Raoul did not think he would. Harm her physically, anyway. But it was best to be prepared for anything.

Christine did not show up tonight—of course not, the diva always needed even more preparation than the leading man—but he went to attend her in her own room, where she was already dressed but was surrounded by about six ballerinas, including Meg Giry. Still, when she heard Raoul come in she immediately swiveled to face him, a tired smile on her lips.

“You’re already dressed,” she said. “That’s good.” She pointed to a chair a ballerina was currently sitting in. “Jammes, get up. Let Monsieur de Chagny sit down.”

The ballerina did, scuttling off to the side, as the rest cleared to make room for him so that he could get to Christine.

“So,” Christine said. “Your first performance. Do you think you’re ready to perform in front of an audience?”

Oh.

Raoul had quite forgotten that aspect.

Maintaining security meant he knew the numbers likely to show up—they had a full house tonight, apart from the empty Box Five—but he had not considered the fact that these people would be not just innocent bystanders in the Phantom’s game, but would, in fact, be there to watch the opera.

He made a noise in his throat.

Christine raised her eyebrows. “You hadn’t thought about that?”

One of the ballerinas giggled. Raoul glanced back, but whoever it was had already stopped and they were all looking very serious now.

“Well,” he said. “I’m not really doing this because I wanted an audience.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Christine stood and kissed him on the cheek. Chastely, but it still roused quite a number of giggles. Which was ridiculous—Raoul had seen couples doing far more in the backstage areas and even the halls of the opera house, the lifestyle of actresses and singers being somewhat loose—but perhaps it was more scandalous when it was the new diva and the Vicomte.

An hour to go. They spent half of it with each other, and then they had to bustle around to their positions backstage. Raoul wanted to peek at the audience (full house—he’d been in the audience for a full house before but that was different, and he wanted to see just how many people that was) but the director insisted he could not since he was already in his costume and makeup.

So he stood beside the stage, close to the curtain, watching the backstage workers make the final adjustments to the set and lighting and listening to the dull buzz of the audience. It was a half world, a moment that barely seemed to exist. In a moment he would be a performer on the stage in truth, and all his practices and rehearsals would either pay off or come to naught. But for this moment he was merely an inexperienced Vicomte, a bystander and not really a part of the cast. How could he be? Two weeks of rehearsal did not a singer make. Perhaps the Phantom would interrupt the play before he had to go on, and he would never find out if he could make that transformation successfully, which he had not doubted before but which now seemed very doubtful indeed.

Then the managers came onstage to half hearted applause and gave a speech—behind the curtain it was hard to hear every word, especially since the managers could not project as well as the singers might, but in general they seemed to be talking about the recent successes of the opera house and how glad they were for all their generous patrons (much applause here) and how tonight they were performing something rather different, a new opera with fresh ideas and musical experimentation. That this would be the first time this opera had ever been performed. Another thank you to the audience and they retreated backstage.

The overture began to play. Raoul’s throat tightened.

A hand fell on his arm and he nearly jumped. Turning, he saw it was Piangi.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered. “You aren’t in the cast.”

“I thought you might panic,” Piangi said. “Be calm. It’s a difficult part but I have seen you progress.” His smile, in the half light here backstage, was almost eerie. “I must return to the audience, but I have faith in you. Make sure to project.”

He vanished into the shadows.

Make sure to project. Right. Because otherwise the audience wouldn’t be able to hear him. The audience which was how big again?

The overture was finished and now the curtains were opening, though Raoul was still off to the side. The ballerinas, on the other hand, were being slowly revealed, and when the curtains were fully opened, the music began to play for their opening number.

Christine, he thought. If Christine were here she would know how to stifle his nerves. But she wasn’t backstage yet—she wouldn’t be on for another half hour, and even then only for a brief scene since her part was far more important in Act Two.

Of course, she would still be watching. He would have to remember her, and that would make him calm.

The ballerinas finished and exited. A couple singers strolled on stage and began to sing a casual conversation. Now, this was his queue, his introduction. Time to go.

He expected walking onstage to feel like jumping into water, a sudden and cold transition, a prickling awareness of the audience. Instead it was only a mechanical action, just like any other rehearsal. You could see the audience by the light of the new chandelier, the only light left burning now. But all the faces blurred together. They might as well not be real.

Well, at least he knew one of them was Piangi.

(And one of them, probably hidden away in Box Five, was a masked opera ghost—but enough of that. He had lines to sing.)

* * *

 

Erik had come to realize, in the making of this play more than anything, that even with the most carefully crafted plans, nothing ever went quite as you wanted it.

The costumes, after all his specifications and all his overseeing, were less impressive from a distance in the stage light. The ballerinas’ choreography was decent but still faltered in places, and no two ballerinas danced it exactly the same, and no one ballerina danced it quite as he had originally pictured. The music from the orchestra sounded like he had planned but was different because of the buzz of the audience underlying it, sometimes shocked at the dissonance and sometimes bored at the longer winding bits in the overture. As for the singers, they were singing differently from how they ever had in rehearsal, louder and more boisterous for some reason, buoyed by the crowd. He half wanted to yell at them, “No! You had it perfect before!” and then realized, as the comic relief at the beginning drew laughs from the audience, that perhaps this was its own type of perfection.

_Don Juan Triumphant_ had been the child of his mind, his genius, crafted with sleepless nights and restless soul over the course of years. But now it belonged to all the cast and crew and even the audience, and with every little change, it somehow became something truer, grander, than his original vision.

His casting was good, he decided as the play went on. Oddly enough, he thought that of all the actors and actresses Carlotta as Zerlinda came the closest to his original image of her character: a nasty delight with an easily flattered ego. And she had a surprising amount of chemistry with the Vicomte during the one duet they had that was half romantic, which made him frown. Christine had to be jealous of that. Or if she wasn’t, she should be.

When the Vicomte broke up with her in the harshest way possible he felt, despite having seen the scene a hundred times before and having written it, somehow relieved. Of course the look of outrage on Carlotta’s face, even if he knew it to be faked, was priceless.

The Vicomte was the opposite of Carlotta. Of all the actors and actresses, he as Don Juan strayed the furthest from Erik’s initial vision. A hundred times Erik frowned because no, he was acting too friendly or likeable, or softening words to irony that should be bellowed fury. But somehow he found himself drawn in nonetheless, captivated by a fierce wonder: What would the Vicomte do next? How would he pronounce this line, or that one? He watched almost breathless; this despite the fact that he had already seen rehearsals with this same cast practically every day for the past three months.

Of course, Christine was the highlight of the night, as he had expected. Her singing skill alone would have brought down the house. But she acted Aminta with poise and yet audacity, with tenderness and with passion, with dignity and with humility. She was the perfect heroine and yet still complex. Although to be fair Erik knew that he would never be able to separate his own knowledge of Christine from how she acted Aminta, from how he had written Aminta. The two were too closely intertwined.

He had expected that to hear her sing the lines he had written would feel as if she were singing personally to him, that her eyes might seek him out in the crowd. Instead, he felt as if he were any other audience member observing her glory. But that was enough. He was sure there was no member of the audience whom she did not casually enthrall with every movement of her body, with every word out of her lips. Her eyes were bright with feeling, with knowledge. They did not look at him, they did not see him, and yet he felt that somehow for the first time he was truly seeing and knowing her. And simultaneously that she was more than he would ever fully see or know.

So. That was an experience.

The seduction scene, of course, was intense.

Don Juan’s casual lines beforehand about how he would almost laugh at the deception faded away from the audience’s mind as soon as he and Aminta came face to face on the stage. Although they were the stars of the play, it was the first time they had been alone together. Sparks sizzled and burned as Don Juan sang of warm, sweet love and Aminta danced towards him, curving her body into every caress, stringing her own words together as skillfully as a far more experienced seductress might.

At last they exited the stage together, off into the curtains, and other actors came onstage, and the play moved on. Of course, Erik did not doubt the audience’s thoughts still lingered on what Don Juan and Aminta might be doing together off stage—how those passions might fuse and merge after all, and what heat, what fire might emit from such a fusion.

Himself, he could not help but wonder about it. Of course he knew what Don Juan and Aminta were doing—he had written the script, he knew what consequences were soon to ensue from the affair as well. But what about Christine and the Vicomte? After such a frenzied song, would they be able to resist falling upon each other as soon as they were out of the audience’s sight? Of course they would have to—they were on again in just a few minutes. Perhaps they would sate themselves later, when the play was long over for the night. His heart twinged slightly at the thought.

But the play went on, drawing to a manic close full of death and misery and bitter, bitter irony. It hurt to watch, even though he was the one who had scripted it. Of course Don Juan didn’t die. He remained as grimly cavalier at the end as he had been at the beginning, with no consequences in sight—although Raoul’s portrayal made you wonder if perhaps he did feel more regret than he was willing to show.

The curtains closed, then reopened. The cast bowed. The audience applauded, though some members still seemed dazed. They applauded especially loudly for Christine, which was only right.

He was not sitting in Box Five but in a secret chamber very near it, and so he did not feel the need to immediately leave the theater as the audience bustled about, although the gendarmes came to check the box and searched it thoroughly. In fact he ignored them—both the gendarmes and the audience. He had many other things to think of.

Raoul and Christine would be talking to their admirers now—along with the other singers and dancers and actors of course, especially Carlotta. Christine would still carry a little of Aminta with her (as she always did) but from Raoul the specter of Don Juan would be long gone. He would probably be delighted to hear from people who had admired his performance, and those who didn’t but would lie and say they did because he was a vicomte.

Would the crowd sweep the mysterious Phantom out of his mind entirely? Or, thinking of the man who had orchestrated the night, would he feel only regret that the gendarmes had not succeeded in seizing him after all?

Would the glory of the stage have marked him at all?

Erik growled.

If anyone had asked him (and nobody had, except Madame Giry) he would have said in the past that he only wished to challenge the Vicomte, to see if he was even a worthy opponent through giving him this chance to perform on stage. He would have perhaps admitted that he thought the Vicomte might add something interesting to _Don Juan Triumphant_ , a different dynamic, but that to Erik it was only a matter of aesthetics. In short, he would have lied.

Raoul had made a very interesting Don Juan. But more than that, it had been beautiful, Erik thought, to see Raoul sing notes Erik had composed, to see him conform to Erik’s music. As if for a moment he belonged to Erik, as if Erik possessed him, owned him…

But Don Juan was probably already far from Raoul’s mind. Yes, for a while the part had transformed him, for a while he had been immersed in a world of Erik’s making. But that was impermanent. The nature of opera, to transport its performers and audience for only a few brief moments before casting them back out into a shallower, dirtier world.

There would be another performance tomorrow, Erik reminded himself. And the night after that, and three more the week after that. They were scheduled for nine performances, three weeks of Erik’s mastery. For another three weeks of rehearsals and acting, Raoul and Christine would be his.

He still had time to figure out what he would do afterward.

* * *

 

Christine waited until after the crowds were gone. One was expected to talk to one’s fans, and she had a lot of fans here tonight. She and Raoul mostly stuck together as they talked to all the wealthy and important people in attendance. It kept them busy for more than an hour before they could sneak away.

She waited until they were in her own dressing room, waited for Raoul to close and lock the door. And when he turned away from it she lunged at him, pinning him hard against the door as she pushed her lips onto his, and her tongue through his lips.

For a long moment she focused on his mouth, swirling her tongue around in it and enjoying a taste of what she had found herself craving onstage. Raoul’s hands were gripping hard at her waist, keeping her close to him. She bucked her hips slightly and wasn’t surprised to hear him moan.

They parted with a mutual gasp.

“What do you want?” Raoul said, pulling off the cravat that was part of his Don Juan costume. “I’m going to ruin your makeup.”

“You,” Christine said. “I want you.” She pulled his hands back to her waist. “Now. I’ve been waiting all night…”

“I can’t do much when you have that hoop skirt in the way.”

“Well then help me get it off!”

He complied. Of course practicality dictated they had to take nearly all their clothes off—they couldn’t wash and dry them in time for the show tomorrow, and they only had one set of costumes. They made short work of it, and as soon as they were done she pushed him to the ground and hurriedly straddled his hips. He groaned again, and she gripped his shoulders as she rode him harder and harder and harder and harder…

It went very fast. Christine wasn’t sure whether it was the adrenalin rush of performing earlier with the Phantom watching or the fact that earlier they had danced around a sex scene in front of an audience of hundreds of people, but they were both craving release, hungry for it. Raoul didn’t even object about the likelihood of someone finding them, for once.

When they were done she remained sitting on him for a while, both of them catching their breath. Then Raoul awkwardly glanced at the corner of the room where he’d thrown his pants, and Christine climbed off.

“Think the Phantom was watching that time?” Christine said.

Raoul frowned. He was pulling on the same old costume—his street clothes were in his room, so he couldn’t change just yet. “Is that what you were thinking when you…”

“I don’t care if he is,” Christine said. “You and I are in the right and you belong to me and I belong to you and he should know that.” She grabbed the back of Raoul’s neck and kissed him again, tantalizingly slow.

Raoul pushed her off. “Not again.”

“You didn’t have fun?”

“Well, not again right now,” Raoul said. He hesitated. “I was wondering…I thought…maybe you might come home with me tonight. My house at least has a bed.”

Christine, despite having been engaged to Raoul for a while now, had never been to his house. She cleared her throat. “Madame Giry will think it odd when I don’t come home to her and Meg.”

“I think she’s proved by now she knows how to be discreet.”

“The ballet girls don’t.”

“Christine,” Raoul said. “Everyone that matters knows that we’re together. You won’t let me announce our engagement, and I’m fine with that. But if you come to my house for a single night, no one has to know. My servants won’t talk.”

Christine shook her head regretfully. “It’s a bad habit to start.”

No one cared if a singer and a vicomte slept together. But Christine wanted to marry Raoul. Virtue became a lot more important when you were going to be the Vicomte de Chagny’s wife.

Raoul sighed. “Very well.” He kissed her again, but only very shortly. “Someday, though, you’re going to come home with me and it will be your home as well.”

“I await the day.”

They did not talk about the fact that the Phantom had not made his move that night. They did not discuss what he might do in the future.

Christine knew, though, that it was as much in Raoul’s mind as in hers. His eyes were distant, and when he headed out to go to his dressing room, he did not respond to her when she said goodbye.


	8. Everyone's a Critic

There was another show on Saturday night, and another show on Sunday night. Raoul expected the Phantom to show up at least at one of them, but he didn’t. Next week then, maybe.

In the meantime, _Don Juan Triumphant_ was causing quite a buzz. Apparently no one was quite sure what to think of it. Mood-wise, of course, it was more cynical and satirical than most productions at the Opera Populaire. A kind reviewer wrote that it was something refreshing and new, that its tragedies and grimness were balanced out by some of the more comedic scenes, and that the dissonant orchestral background and the clashing choral pieces did add to the chaos in the play but that it was a good kind of chaos, a purposeful sort of chaos. “The writer is presenting a challenge to the universe,” he wrote in conclusion. “Something, he says, is very wrong. Things should not be the way they are—in life, in love, and even in death.”

Other reviewers hedged their bets. The music was atypical but had its good points. Or they would insult certain pieces but praise the more traditional songs—the seduction scene, a couple of the comedic interludes, a tragic song sung by la Carlotta at the beginning of Act Two. When they praised the latter Raoul knew they had the play all wrong. Carlotta sang the song seriously but even so, the lyrics clearly were intended to undercut her sorrow at being rejected and ridicule the stupidity of her love for Don Juan. Even Carlotta rolled her eyes at some of those, though if asked she would say these critics were “most kind.”

But many of the reviewers just hated it. “This anonymous writer seems to think that to challenge tradition is to ascend above it,” one wrote. “But to break with it too often is to descend into futile chaos. This play’s plot is a tangled mess, its romance is incomprehensible and unromantically lustful, its protagonist is morally depraved and its score rakes the eardrums with no touch of subtlety. I cannot imagine why the Opera Populaire would choose to show the work of such an amateur. No doubt they have their reasons. I hope they will never host such a farce as this again. Until its season is over in three weeks, I will be studiously avoiding their theater.”

Raoul hoped the Phantom would not read this review, or many of the others. Not that he wished to spare the feelings of a man who was basically holding the opera house hostage so they would succumb to his demands, but he worried. The Phantom’s ego was fragile. He might be tempted to take revenge.

Raoul’s own ego was being dragged through the muck as well. Every critic, after all, had to speak of the cast, and when it came to the cast Raoul was front and center. And in a convenient position to be castigated, as all knew he was an amateur, a patron of the opera house and the Vicomte de Chagny. That meant every critic with a chip on their shoulder about patrons interfering with the workings of artists, especially theaters, saw him as the epitome of an epidemic they all despised.

“The Vicomte de Chagny cannot sing,” one read. “And should learn not to meddle with the arts which are better practiced by those who indeed have the practice. While his voice projects well enough to hear what he is saying, his intonation is nasal and has no depth. I would say he often misses notes as well, but with the dissonance of the score it is impossible to tell what is deliberate and what is blunder.”

“I had thought better of the Opera Populaire than to cast a patron, no matter what the sum offered,” another wrote. “Now we can see that greed has a heavier cost than it is worth. With this idiot of a nobleman aping a professional singer onstage, I will be boycotting the Opera Populaire until he is gone, whether that be until the end of the season or the coming of Armageddon. I do not doubt others will choose to do the same.”

“Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny,” another critic said. “Has a fine voice, but a voice in the rough does not equal talent. While it is understandable that a nobleman might desire to become involved in the arts, talent needs to be refined, and skill takes time to build. I would not say a Vicomte could never be a singer, though it is indeed an odd choice for one of his station. I would say a Vicomte cannot become a singer overnight, and should not pretend that he can.”

Piangi came over and found Raoul in Christine’s room after rehearsal on Thursday night. She was busy with other things, and he waited for her, already out of his costume and makeup.

All the reviews of Christine had been very positive.

“I think the chorus director wants to speak with you,” Piangi said. “I knew I could find you here when no one could find you elsewhere.”

Raoul stood up, but Piangi blocked his way to the door. “You do not seem happy, monsieur,” he said.

“Should I be?”

“Tomorrow you have another performance. Be happy. Be excited. Or else how will you bring energy to the stage? It must fill you with fire, or your performance will be lukewarm at best.”

“We both know it’s already lukewarm.”

Piangi made a face. “Last week you were on fire to improve.”

“Last week I had the Phantom breathing down my neck,” Raoul said. “I was desperate.”

“And this week you are allowing the critics to trample on you, hm?” Piangi said. “You know it is very common for them to mock newcomers. Miss Daae was noticeable as an exception—her success is not the rule. Myself, I was mocked because I trilled too much and they said I had not the face and body of a man. Now there is no one can claim Piangi is not a good tenor or a fine man. I proved to the critics that I was an artist. It is a rite of passage we all must undertake.”

“At least you had proper training.”

“Are you saying you did not? Under my hands?” Piangi bristled. “Monsieur, I will allow you to take that back…”

“I trained with you and the chorus director for two weeks. That’s not enough.”

“Miss Daae tells me you have often sung with her before, and that her father tried to teach you something of music once.”

“When I was twelve.”

“Very well, then, Monsieur Vicomte, you are not a professional singer,” Piangi said. He put his big hands on Raoul’s (rather small) shoulders and squeezed. “But you do have promise, and the audience likes you. At the end of every song you sing, we’ve heard the applause. It is not equal to Miss Daae’s, but can you doubt they want more?” He shook his head. “You must give them more tomorrow.”

He took a newspaper out of a pocket in his vest. “Here.”

Automatically, Raoul turned to the page where the theater reviews were and found _Don Juan Triumphant_. Mood grim but intriguing…Miss Daae continuing to shine…Carlotta surprisingly adept at the role of antagonist, perhaps something to consider for the future…and the Vicomte de Chagny…

Raoul drew a deep breath. “What is this?”

“Read it again, Monsieur. Or should I read it to you?” Piangi snatched the paper up and read aloud. “The Vicomte de Chagny presents a surprisingly delightful Don Juan, turning a character that in other hands might be unpalatable into a complex antihero reminiscent of perhaps one of Byron’s heroes. While he manipulates those around him, is convinced of his own superiority, and shows an outlook on life that is grim to the point of despair, there is a sort of savoir faire about him that makes him difficult to hate. His charisma pulls one in. One can easily understand why the lovers of Don Juan are so enamored when the Vicomte sings to them so sweetly, and one is never completely sure whether Don Juan can truly be as morally bankrupt as his actions and words proclaim him. Don Juan should appear soulless, but de Chagny’s performance is soulful. I look forward to returning next weekend to parse the subtleties of his acting choices.”

Piangi put the paper down on Christine’s desk as Raoul gaped. “So you see, monsieur, you are not so unpopular as you think.”

“One paper.”

“It’s a reputable critic. People will listen to him. Some may even rethink what they have said.”

Raoul said, “But…”

“It is your first show, Vicomte. For that, you are doing very well.”

“My first show.” Raoul laughed. “I’m not likely to be in another.”

“Then you must enjoy it while it lasts, hm?” Piangi said. He turned to the door. “Come. The chorus director must speak with you.”

Raoul followed him out to the hallway. “I’m not meant to be enjoying this. I’m only doing it because of the Phantom.” To catch him? To appease him? With the continued failure of the gendarmes, he wasn’t sure anymore.

“Well, it certainly appears you’ve succeeded in pleasing that audience.”

“I do not catch your meaning, monsieur.” The Phantom had not been in touch since opening night, except one note to the orchestra’s conductor remonstrating him on not pausing long enough between two songs.

“He’s temperamental,” Piangi said. “We know that by now. If he didn’t like your performance, I’m sure we’d be hearing about it. Or more likely suffering for it.” He gave Raoul a grave look. “You must sing to the best of your ability tomorrow night. Much depends on it.”

* * *

 

So Raoul did.

He tried to pay attention mostly to the responsiveness of the audience above all else. They were good audiences. Most of them either had bought their tickets far in advance or were intrigued by the mixed opinions on _Don Juan Triumphant_ and the odd score and casting choices. But they applauded after nearly ever number, laughed and gasped when they were supposed to, and stood up at the curtain call for several minutes. And they loved Christine. Raoul could not help but love an audience that loved Christine.

He thought he was getting better. He had hated the character of Don Juan at first and he still wasn’t a huge fan, but there were elements of Don Juan that he could relate to. Sometimes now singing as Don Juan felt natural. Even the rougher songs—rants on pessimistic philosophy or the pettiness of Zerlinda—were getting to be easier. It was just acting, after all. And with the help of Christine and Piangi and all the other members of the cast, he was perfecting what had originally been a very thrown together act.

After one performance, the one on the second Saturday night, he found himself cornered by a certain daughter of a count whom he had met before at dinners but never talked to.

“Monsieur,” she said. “Monsieur, you know me. We have met.”

“Of course,” he said. He could not remember her name.

“I did not know you could sing, monsieur. And you sing so well.”

“I thank you. I try my best.”

“You are like an angel!”

He felt like someone had knocked the air out of him. Shaking his head, he said, “My character is hardly an angel and neither am I. But I thank you for the compliment.” He glanced behind him, pretending to see someone. “I’m afraid I am needed.”

“I will come to the next performance!” she called after him. He sent her a fleeting smile.

Christine laughed when he told her about it. “But of course she meant to compliment you.”

“I do not consider it a compliment to be compared to Him.”

“But she does not even know the Phantom. She only meant that you sing very well, which is not entirely true but…Oh, I did not mean to insult you, you sing very well for an amateur, only I doubt she knows the difference between an amateur and a master.”

“Christine,” Raoul said, shaking his head. “It is good to know I can depend on you for comfort.”

She smiled. “Well, you do realize that girl has fallen in love with you.”

“What?”

“I can’t say I approve of her taste. To fall for someone playing Don Juan…Moreover, I’m afraid she’ll be disappointed since you aren’t much like Don Juan at all.”

“Well, I’m in love with you anyways,” Raoul said. “But I think you must be wrong, Christine, I know that girl. She has always been far too aloof to be interested.”

“Comparing you to an angel is aloof now?”

“Christine,” Raoul pleaded, and she laughingly relented.

Christine had far more admirers than Raoul, for that matter. Men of all ages praised her performance of Aminta. Some of their compliments would get uncomfortably sexual, at which point she would either extract herself from the conversation as soon as possible or get Raoul to intervene if he was around. But for the most part she accepted their admiration with more calmness and grace than Raoul could ever have managed. When she was the Vicomtesse de Chagny (yes, he was still optimistic), she would be a masterful one. He would always know how blessed he was to have her as a wife. Why, even now he felt blessed every time she smiled at him, and every time her hand came up to quietly caress his cheek.

Such a woman she was.

“I could be no Don Juan without you,” he told her after the second Sunday performance. “You lovely Aminta, you minx.” She’d been especially flirtatious with him tonight, not even confining her smirking advances to the seduction scene. The audience had loved it. Raoul had nearly gone insane.

“You couldn’t be anyone without me,” she said haughtily, giving him her hand to kiss. He shrugged and kissed it. She wasn’t wrong.

And so _Don Juan Triumphant_ progressed. After the second round of performances, there were a couple more positive reviews, though some were still entirely negative. Carlotta seemed to have settled down and wasn’t making trouble about Christine’s round of fame because of the reviews praising Zerlinda and her usual stream of admirers. The gendarmes continued to fail to find the Phantom, and were beginning to get impatient. A couple made remarks to Raoul that insinuated he had made the Phantom up. Which was ridiculous, but Raoul could see what they meant. There had been six performances now, and the Phantom had done nothing to disrupt any of them. Nor had he been sitting in Box Five.

Raoul was beginning to believe he would never show. But then, why not? Surely he would want a grand finale for his show, not an anticlimax. And it was obvious to anyone that Don Juan Triumphant wasn’t the only show he was running. No, he was playing with the people of the Opera Populaire like marionettes. Simply letting them run their show in peace was no grand finish.

Or perhaps, Raoul thought after a long day of rehearsal, the Phantom didn’t intend to let this end with this season. Perhaps he would force them to perform the play again and again and again, whenever the whim suited him, making more and more ludicrous demands. That would be slow ruin for the opera house, worse than if he made a scene onstage like Raoul had originally imagined. Painful even to watch.

The thought didn’t horrify him as much as he thought, though. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was a good opera, he had decided by now. The Phantom had decent taste. Giving him some creative control of the opera house…well, it might not be too bad.

Except for the fact that Christine still had moments where she would go absolutely still and stare off into the distance, a look of abstract dread on her face, would still freeze up sometimes in the middle of a conversation, thinking of something (or rather someone) else. And at those moments Raoul would remember that it didn’t matter if the Phantom were the greatest musical genius of the century. He had still treated Christine badly, frightened her. That could not be allowed to stand.

Friday night the third week, the seats were still sold out. Despite all the critics who had written scathing reviews, either enough positive reviews countered the effect or a lot of people wanted to see a shipwreck of an opera that it hardly had affected the opera house’s popularity at all. Of course, it was probably a lot to do with _Don Juan Triumphant_ ’s growing notoriety and the mystery surrounding its mysterious composer. No one was supposed to know it was an opera ghost, but everyone knew at least that circumstances were very strange, with gendarmes still positioned throughout the audience and the actors always a bit tense before and afterwards.

The opera went smoothly. Raoul and Christine greeted fans together afterwards, until Christine slipped away from Raoul, murmuring in his ear something about needing to meet someone and meeting him in her dressing room later. He had to deal with his few admirers alone after that, but not for long before he excused himself and headed backstage. To Christine’s dressing room. It was locked but he had a key these days, and it was easy to let himself in.

 He settled down at her dressing table. After four weeks of rehearsals and performances, he more or less knew his way around it. Now he pulled out a handkerchief and wetted it in a pitcher of water she kept around. Perhaps by the time Christine got back he could have his makeup off.

But he had only just begun to wipe off his forehead of foundation when he heard a footstep behind him. Frowning, he began to turn.

Before he had fully turned a hand grabbed the back of his head and another arm laced firmly around his neck. Black sleeves. He opened his mouth to yell, but the arm was tightening its grip, the hand on the back of his head pushing him into it. He couldn’t breathe. Dizzy, he fought to keep his eyes open. Yes—there in the dressing room mirror—a figure all in black. Even so close behind him the face seemed blurred but he could see the half mask, silently watching, watching him choke. He tried to rake the arm with his nails but the fabric was smooth and his fingers felt numb. Yes, the man was just as Christine had first described him. Christine…

And everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me singing quietly: When I fall in love I fall down the rabbit hole...  
> (coughs.) I mean...DOWN ONCE MORE TO THE DUNGEONS OF MY BLACK DESPAIR, DOWN ONCE MORE TO THE PRISONS OF MY MIND! DOWN THAT PATH INTO DARKNESS DEEP AS HEEEEELLLLLL!!!!!  
> But anyways....  
> This chapter seems pretty slow apart from the end, but may I say that one major thing that I wanted in this story, that was like REALLY IMPORTANT to me, was Raoul getting ripped apart by critics? Like. You don't know, but at this point I've done pretty much everything I wanted to write in this fic.  
> Now all I have to do is actually tie up my plot threads into some reasonable configuration within the next five to six chapters, but that's okay. I can do that....Sure....  
> Anyways, comments or kudos would be much appreciated. Or check me out on tumblr @convenientalias.tumblr.com


	9. Two No-Shows (But the Show Must Go On)

Christine hadn’t wanted to worry Raoul.

Actually the note had come before the opera started that evening, by way of Madame Giry. The first communication from the Phantom in three weeks.

“Dear Christine,

“As my opera draws to a close, I feel there is much we need to discuss. Meet me in Box Three when the crowd has cleared. Please leave Monsieur de Chagny behind, preferably out of the way in your room. If he comes, I will not be able to speak with you, and I believe you will not like the consequences.

“Sincerely,

“Your Angel of Music.”

Part of her thought it was impudent of him to still style himself as her angel after all that had occurred. Part of her, however, knew it was still true, would always be true. She would always do as he said, follow where he led. And so of course she followed the orders in the note to the letter.

 She was unsure what the Phantom might want to speak to her about. Did he want to proclaim love to her again, ask her once again to join him and leave the world she knew behind? Did he at least want her to break things off with Raoul? Although that seemed less likely since he had been more interested in Raoul lately. Did he, perhaps, only want to speak about the show and how she had acted in it so far? And if that was it, did he think her acting lately had been good or bad?

She hated herself but some part of her longed to hear him say he liked her interpretation of Aminta, longed to hear him say she had been singing well, had done the part justice. It was exactly what she had warned Raoul against a couple weeks ago, singing to please him, but she couldn’t help it. Even with Raoul onstage with her, when she sang to the audience she couldn’t help but be aware of the Phantom watching her. Only, sometimes it frightened her less than it pleased her.

And so she waited, hoping that when the Phantom showed up his words towards her would be those of a friend and teacher, and not a tyrant. Although, as she reread the note over and over, she could not really believe it. Talk of consequences and leaving Raoul behind—when they had truly been friends to each other, he would never have spoken or written to her like that.

A harsh teacher, then. But he wanted to be friends still, she was sure of it. And perhaps, if he would speak to her alone tonight, when she was still fresh with the confidence of the stage, she could persuade him to be the kind angel again. (Though what she would do after that, she had no idea. Certainly things could not go on as they had. But anything, surely, would be better than this limbo where he held them now. Anything…)

And so she sat, and waited, and hoped. And the minutes slowly ticked by.

When an hour had passed, she wondered why he would make her wait like this when he had always been so prompt before. But still she sat and waited.

Raoul would be waiting for her in her room still. She knew he would not go out without her. He might get impatient, though. Frankly it was surprising he had not come to find her yet—she had told a couple people that she was going to Box Three to sit down, and it would not have been difficult to find her. Maybe he had fallen asleep in her room. He’d done that before—fallen asleep with his head lying on her dressing table, and she’d barely had the willpower to wake him up.  He was a sight when he was sleeping. He probably needed the rest; she hoped that was it. More likely he’d gotten caught talking to the managers or some patron and was waiting for her to come rescue him from boredom. Well, she would come.

But she had to see the Phantom first. He had promised he would come, and he always fulfilled his promises. And if she didn’t wait…the note hadn’t specified consequences for that, but it didn’t need to. The Phantom hated disobedience.

A second hour passed. Someone knocked at the door of Box Three. Christine opened it to find a cleaning lady.

“Oh! It’s you, miss. I was wondering who might still be in here.” The cleaning lady chuckled. “Not too much of a mess back here, is there? Well, don’t mind me. I can work around you.”

So Christine continued to sit in her chair in Box Three as the cleaning lady picked up deserted programs and swept the floor.

It was getting very awkward.

Finally the cleaning lady left with a merry farewell to work on the next box. And Christine was still sitting there. Waiting.

It was getting very late. Raoul must have fallen asleep—she’d hate to rouse him after letting him nap for so long, but it would have to be done. He needed to get home at a reasonable hour tonight and for that matter so did she. As soon as she finished this conversation with the Phantom, the Phantom who wasn’t showing up, the Phantom who was playing with her, making her wait just for fun, who clearly didn’t want to reconcile with her after all or praise her music and only wanted to make her look a fool with all this damn waiting.

He was never going to show up.

She stood. “Angel?” she said, tentative voice loud in the quiet theater.

There was no response.

She tried again. “Phantom?”

If he was there, he didn’t answer. She crossed her arms. “It’s getting late. If you want me to perform well in your opera I must get some sleep.”

No answer.

“You specified we would meet after the crowd cleared,” she said. “I came then, and I have been waiting to meet you. But I can’t stay here any longer.”

No answer.

She shivered. Part of her told her it was better to stay, not to risk his rage. To sit down again and wait longer—he was bound to show up eventually, it said. But she turned towards the door and quickly stepped out into the aisles, and walked back to her room without once looking back.

He would be angry now, maybe. But then, how much could that matter? It seemed lately as if he was always either angry or disinterested, and while she knew his anger was worse, of late she had come to hate equally the bitter sting of his disinterest. If he was going to play games with her, she would not merely sit and let him. She couldn’t.

Her door was locked when she got to her room, but she had the key with her and easily opened it. The candles were still lit and she smiled as she entered, expecting any minute to find Raoul’s slumbering form or, if he had only been unusually impatient tonight, to meet his eyes.

Raoul, however, was not there. She scanned the room over twice to be sure, but it was not a large room or fit for concealing anyone—unless you counted the mirror, and neither she nor Raoul had yet figured out how that mechanism worked. She frowned. So he had gotten impatient. Very impatient, she noted—there was a handkerchief lying on the floor that she recognized as belonging to him, crumpled up and smeared lightly with makeup. It wasn’t like Raoul to throw things on her floor, but then, he had been going through a lot lately. Hopefully by now his anger would have cooled. She picked up the handkerchief and smoothed it out. At least that meant he was probably changed by now, though she was still in costume and makeup. She’d find him before changing, although she was certainly running late. Because changing would take quite a while, and she didn’t want to test his patience any more than she already had.

If he wasn’t in her room, he was probably in his room. But when she went looking—and his door wasn’t even locked, silly boy—he wasn’t there either. Nor was his costume, which he was in the habit of leaving at the opera house rather than taking home. And his street clothes were still folded neatly near his dressing table.

Had he really gotten sucked into a long conversation?

She headed out, scanning the halls on her way to the managers’ office. Firmin was still in though Andre apparently had left. He was looking over some papers with a slight smile on his face. Despite all the trouble lately, business was very good. Nothing sold seats or advertised a show like a mystery or a controversy and _Don Juan Triumphant_ , with its anonymous writer and polarized reviews, could be said to be both.

When she asked Firmin if he had seen where the Vicomte went, Firmin shook his head and said that no doubt the Vicomte had headed home to get some rest—heavily implying that Christine, another star of the show, should follow his example.

No doubt. But he hadn’t left the opera house to go home without telling her before, without stopping by her room to give her a kiss and a farewell, even on the nights when they went home separately instead of going for a walk or dinner together. It was odd.

Perhaps he was cross with her. But this wasn’t how he usually acted when he was cross.

With a frown, she headed back to her room and changed after all. And then, after writing a brief note and leaving it in Raoul’s room in case he was still there and simply had wandered off to some corner of the opera house she hadn’t considered, she headed home to the Girys, where she took Madame Giry aside and told her everything.

Madame Giry listened silently, and read the note from the Phantom when Christine handed it to her. When she finally spoke, she said, “You should have waited longer for him.”

“I do not think he ever planned to come.”

“Nevertheless, it is better to avoid making him angry. I wonder what he will do now.” Madame Giry shook her head. “But it is too late to worry about that. The Phantom will do what he wills—Lord knows I’ve never been able to control him.”

“Well, I won’t worry about that,” Christine said. “But I do think I may have upset Raoul. He’s never abandoned me at the opera house before, not when we agreed to meet up later…”

“If you’ve offended the Vicomte, it may do him some good,” Madame Giry said. “Men always have to learn patience. In any case, he is not a Phantom and I think he will forgive him easily.” She folded up the note and handed it back to Christine. “Speak to him tomorrow. For now, get some sleep.”

* * *

 

Raoul usually got to the Opera Populaire slightly earlier than Christine on performance days, for a variety of reasons. First of all, the chorus director still was not confident in Raoul’s singing abilities even three weeks in, so he made Raoul do extra warm ups and run through all the songs before the cast warmed up together. More importantly, though (many people arrived early for such reasons as warming up in private on their own), Raoul still had to speak to the gendarmes before he got distracted by other business. These days it seemed useless with the lack of results, but the gendarmes hadn’t given up quite yet and neither had Raoul, and Christine supposed it was good.

Only today, there was a gendarme standing outside Christine’s room when she arrived. She said, “Good morning monsieur. Do you have business with me?”

He shrugged, clearly embarrassed. “They sent me to ask where the Vicomte is. They say you know him.”

She could tell by the look on his face that they must have made some insinuations about her relationship with Raoul as well. Well, these things happened. “Of course I know Monsieur le Vicomte,” she said politely. “But I have not seen him this morning. I would assume he would be with you, or in his room.”

“He is not in his room. Please, it is not urgent but still…”

Christine sighed. “I’ll look.”

She checked his room first, then checked with the chorus director, the managers, Piangi, even Madame Giry. At the end of half an hour’s search, she knew that no one had seen Raoul all morning, any more than they had seen him last night.

Ultimately, the gendarmes sent a messenger down to his house. And the messenger came back an hour later to report that the Vicomte was not at home, nor had he come home last night according to the servants.

The gendarmes were not particularly concerned.

The managers were.

“Miss Daae, surely you must have some idea…”

“I do not know where he could be,” she said, crossing her legs. It was another meeting in the managers’ office—Firmin, Andre, Christine herself, Piangi, the chorus director, Madame Giry, a couple gendarmes and for no particular reason, Carlotta. “I was occupied for a couple hours last night and he left.”

“Occupied with what?” Carlotta sneered, lifting an eyebrow.

Christine still had the note in her pocket. Now she took it out and handed it around.

“You met with the Phantom last night and you did not inform anyone?” Carlotta said sharply.

“It was unimportant. He never showed up.” Christine paused. “He never meant to…”

The Phantom had summoned her to Box Three, but he had never meant to show up.

The Phantom had asked her to send Raoul to her dressing room at the same time.

The Phantom had shown a curious amount of interest in Raoul lately.

Raoul was missing.

“Miss Daae,” Firmin said. “Miss Daae, is something wrong?” He paced over to her side, vibrating with pent up energy. Any threat to the play made him so anxious, especially when it was to do with the Phantom. “Have you remembered something?”

Christine said, “I have been very stupid.”

“As if that’s a change,” Carlotta said. Piangi squeezed her arm.

Christine turned to Madame Giry. “You know the Phantom. Tell me, did he speak to you about Raoul?”

“We have never discussed the Vicomte at any length,” Madame Giry said. “He has come up before.”

“But we know the Phantom is not fond of him,” Andre said. “Even if they’ve never interacted…that much is clear from the letters.”

Christine could not say that she knew it, not anymore. Shaking her head she said “He must have taken him.”

“The Phantom? Taken the Vicomte?”

“What else could have happened?” Christine snapped. She stopped and took a deep breath. She’d only figured it out herself a minute ago. “Raoul wouldn’t run out on us.”

“The Phantom and the Vicomte do have a certain rivalry, monsieurs,” Madame Giry said with a significant look at Christine. “It would not be so farfetched.”

“Well, damn it, why would he do that tonight? We can’t put on the play without de Chagny. He’s the one who wants this thing performed!” Firmin said. “Has he sent any other notes? Besides that one to Miss Daae?”

In fact, he had not.

Andre groaned. “We will have to cancel! A full house sold and we will have to cancel.”

Of course they were only concerned about the money and publicity. Christine’s fists clenched in her skirt.

Madame Giry said, “I do not think that would be wise. Since we have not heard from the Phantom, we can only assume he wants us to continue.”

“Without the leading man? Are you mad?”

“Piangi is trained in the role. He can take over.” Madame Giry turned to Piangi now, a stern look on his face. “And he will do so.”

Piangi said, “The Phantom specified I was not to play the role. I have not been practicing it.”

“The Phantom said the Vicomte de Chagny was to play the role, and he is not here. You have been practicing it in your lessons with the Vicomte.” Madame Giry took a step closer. “Do you want your refusal to bring disaster upon us, monsieur?”

“Piangi will sing if he wishes to sing,” Carlotta said. “Back off.”

Madame Giry cast a fleeting glare in his direction.

“I will sing,” Piangi said heavily. “It seems I have no choice.” He touched Carlotta’s hand. “My love, you must not be offended at my words to Zerlinda…”

“As if I would be,” Carlotta said. “Very well. The role has always suited you better. It is no wonder the Phantom should choose to change it back.”

Christine stood up. “You seem to be very happy about this!”

“It is not my fault the Vicomte cannot show up to play his own part. And I am not convinced this is any maneuver of the Phantom’s.”

Madame Giry touched Christine’s arm to calm her down. “So we will proceed with Piangi until the Vicomte shows up. Miss Daae must get dressed. I hope you will excuse us.”

In the hall, she gave Christine a long look. “You are worried about him.”

“How could I not be? How can you not be?”

“Worry will do nothing. Tonight you must sing. There is little to be done until then. If the Phantom has a plan, he will not act before tonight.”

“He acted last night well enough.”

“Christine,” Madame Giry said. “What would you have me do?”

Christine did not know. Shaking her head, she went into her room and took out her makeup. A plan. The Phantom probably did have a plan, and no doubt she was part of it. But she was sick of playing the roles he chose for her to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all y'all who were hoping this fic would have more E/C in it: Christine was kind of hoping for it too, but the Phantom is being an idiot.  
> Dear all y'all who were hoping I would follow up on last chapter's cliffhanger: Hahaha. I'm getting there eventually.  
> Dear all y'all who bothered to read this author's note: I love you all and I'd love to hear from you in the comments. :)


	10. Raoul Doesn't Understand Apples

Raoul couldn’t remember all that well what had happened the night before. It was troubling because somehow he’d ended up in some sort of an unfamiliar candle-lit underground room. He was also chained to an organ, which he could honestly say was something that had never happened to him before.

All right. He was not completely clueless about where he was. Actually he was reasonably certain he was in the abode of the phantom of the opera—though the Phantom himself was nowhere in sight—and thus still somewhere underneath the opera house. Or somewhere near there, anyhow. Christine had said she had gotten to the Phantom’s lair by means of gondola, which meant she had gone some distance from the original opening in her bedroom, and since she said she had lost track of time on the trip it could have been far enough to no longer be strictly speaking under the opera house but merely in the vicinity…

Raoul gave up on calculations. It was too hard. He’d woken up with a dry throat and a sore, cramped up body almost an hour ago, and he could still barely think.

In any case none of that really mattered because he was currently chained to the leg of an organ. He’d woken up lying on the floor next to it like that, probably the reason his body was so sore—there was a carpet on the floor that was surprisingly clean, and a black piece of cloth draped around him that Raoul suspected was the Phantom’s cloak, but he could feel the rocky ground under it all the same, and it didn’t exactly do wonders for his back. After that he’d gotten up fairly quickly and after ascertaining that he couldn’t get the chain off the leg of the organ or his own leg had sat down on the organ bench. If he hadn’t figured out it was the Phantom’s lair by then, it would have become obvious when he saw the scores sitting on the organ with carefully penciled notes and letters. It was the score of _Don Juan Triumphant_ —by now he’d recognize those damn lyrics anywhere.

So he’d been kidnapped by the Phantom. At least when the man had kidnapped Christine he’d been polite about it—gondola rides and music, albeit under the influence of hypnosis. But no such dignity for Raoul. No, he got choked and chained to pipe organs. It figured.

Raoul sighed and put his fingers down on the keys of the organ, resting them without pressing down. M. Daae had taught him the violin and tried to teach him the piano once. Raoul had been a decent violin player—was even now a better violin player than singer—but at the piano he had been somewhat hopeless. He only remembered a couple chords.

Mindlessly, he tried to locate the right keys for the chords. His first couple tries he got wrong, and the resulting dissonance was loud and angry enough to make him cringe. Though to be fair, there were some parts of Don Juan Triumphant that were equally cacophonous. “I am a great artist,” he said aloud. He played the same dissonant chord. “I am the Angel of Music!” he yelled.

Of course no one responded.

Sighing, he repositioned his fingers on the keys. Making fun of the opera ghost behind his back would get him nowhere. To be fair, neither would trying to play anything good, but at least it would probably be easier on the ears. He finally located the few chords he could remember and played them in slow succession, mixing up the order in familiar patterns. M. Daae used to tell him to play them in various orders that had sounded sweet, although repeated too many times they had become monotonous. And he would constantly be craning to see over the top of the piano, to gaze at Christine sitting quietly in the corner, sometimes working on some embroidery or writing a letter, other times listening to him with a smile on her face. And she would see him looking at her and smile wider, and he would blush.

He shook his head, thinking of how peaceful things had been back then, how simple. As simple as the chords…and now, things were twisting into some ridiculous multi-part symphony he had no idea how to play…

Someone tapped his shoulder. He whirled around, hands accidentally crashing down on the keyboard for one final clash, to see the Phantom standing calmly behind him with a single raised eyebrow not covered by the mask.

“You,” Raoul spluttered.

He was unsure what to say. He had seen the Phantom at the masquerade party before, but wearing the death’s head mask and the flamboyant red costume he had hardly been recognizable at the same person, and while Raoul had chased him then they had not truly met. Apart from that, he had only ever encountered the Phantom as a voice.

“You like my organ, monsieur?” the Phantom said while Raoul was still staring at him. Casually, he sat down on the organ bench next to Raoul. Raoul immediately moved over but couldn’t quite scoot to the far side of the bench because the chain fastened to his ankle wasn’t that long.

Damn it.

“It’s a fine instrument,” he said. “Probably I’d appreciate it more if I weren’t cuffed to it.”

The Phantom hummed. “I did not know you played.”

“I don’t.”

“You could, most likely,” the Phantom said. “Here, give me your hands.”

He took both of Raoul’s hands and positioned them on the keyboard under his own gloved hands. Raoul, too startled to protest or move, sat stone still while the Phantom arranged his fingers just so, sighed and pressed down.

BANG.

Startled by the dissonance, Raoul shot up so quickly that he knocked the organ bench over and nearly tripped over his chain. He flailed, trying to catch his balance. The Phantom, who had somehow managed to stand more gracefully—perhaps foreseeing Raoul’s spasm—grabbed Raoul by the shoulders and steadied him. “Maybe you aren’t ready to learn how to play the organ yet. Perhaps something less combative.” He bent down and picked up the organ bench, righting it a bit further back so that there was room for him and Raoul to stand.

By now, Raoul had come to his senses. Stepping around the organ and away from the Phantom, he said, “Monsieur, you must explain yourself.” His hand slipped down to his waist, only of course he didn’t have a sword on. Noticing the Phantom smirking at him, he put his hands on his hips as if it were what he had intended all along.

“What should I explain?” the Phantom said, casually leaning against the wall. “Is there a part of my opera that mystifies you? If you had accepted my tutelage weeks ago…”

“You know very well that is not what I mean,” Raoul said. “What the hell am I doing here?”

“A good question,” the Phantom said. “What _were_ you doing? If you can’t play the organ, and I’ll admit by that reaction you are correct, why on Earth would you attempt it? Such fine instruments don’t deserve the work of an amateur.”

Raoul crossed his arms. He tried to take another step away from Erik, but once again was foiled by the length of the chain.

The Phantom said, “Very well. If it is the events of last night you want to know, they are simple enough.”

He pushed the organ bench close to the organ and sat down again. After playing an opening chord that was slightly more melodic than the last (though still not Daae standard), he said, “I sent a note to Christine yesterday morning. I told her to come to Box Three to meet me and to send you to her dressing room. She did so. I waited until you were distracted, then came through the mirror and choked you into submission. Of course, restricting blood flow in the carotid artery will only render someone unconscious for less than a minute.”

“Of course,” Raoul said faintly.

The Phantom played another chord on the organ and did not continue the story.

He was clearly waiting for Raoul to ask him how, in that case, he had gotten Raoul from Christine’s dressing room to his lair. Waiting for Raoul to ask him for details on how he had been kidnapped. As if Raoul was going to enable his gloating. He cleared his throat. “So you took advantage of my dazed state to drug me and then you hauled my body here.”

The Phantom gave him a look of pure annoyance.

“I’m guessing it was laudanum. I hear that can evoke a certain kind of trance…”

“It does not matter how you got here,” the Phantom said. “What matters is that I stole you from under the managers’ noses—Christine’s nose too for that matter.”

“Get in a fight with Christine?” Raoul asked. He leaned against the organ. “I thought you were in love with her.” His voice dripped venom on the word “love”—as if the Phantom could be in any such thing—and the Phantom scowled.

“She prefers you over me, and for a time I have allowed her to do so,” he said. “But if she does love you as she claims, she ought to keep better track of you, don’t you think?” He stood and touched Raoul’s shoulder, sending a shiver through Raoul’s body at the contact even though he was still wearing black gloves. “When I sent her the note she obeyed me. So she is still mine, no matter what you and she may say.”

“By that logic you own the whole opera house.”

“Do I not?”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit arrogant?”

“It’s not arrogance,” the Phantom said. “If I can follow through.”

His hand was still on Raoul’s shoulder, and now he lightly squeezed it. Before Raoul could pull away he brought his hand down, back to his side. “But we can talk over this at leisure, monsieur. You must be hungry. I have brought back food and drink.”

“Leisure?” Raoul blinked. He had gotten too caught up in the conversation and half forgotten the situation. “Monsieur, the play goes on in…” He trailed off. He had no idea what time it was.

“Seven hours,” the Phantom said blandly. “It’s already noon. You slept very late, so I left you to perform my errands.”

“There are preparations to be done,” Raoul said. “There are singing warm-ups, and a brief run through.”

“And gendarmes to talk to in order to arrange my capture,” the Phantom said with a nod. He had taken out a parcel of brown paper and now began to unwrap it on a small table.

Raoul flushed. “You are the one who told me to perform in this opera, Monsieur O.G.”

“Call me Erik.”

“If you want me to perform, you must return me.”

“A passionate plea,” the Phantom observed. “It seems you like my opera after all.”

He had finished unwrapping the parcel, revealing a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese. With a smile, he also pulled an apple out from a bag Raoul had not noticed before, sitting in a corner. He held the apple temptingly in front of him, then brought it to his lips without biting. Noticing Raoul’s skeptical stare, he placed the apple down on the table and said, “One would think you would recognize the choreography for your seduction scene.”

“My apologies,” Raoul said sarcastically. “I must be terribly dull.”

To be honest, he’d never really understood what the apple was supposed to accomplish in that scene, where it was more of a distraction than anything else. But every time he brought it up the director and Christine would look knowingly at each other, so he’d stopped complaining.

The Phantom took out a bread knife and sliced up the bread and cheese. It was a terribly ordinary bread knife. Raoul felt somewhat disappointed—really, he thought, it should have been a dagger.

Task completed, the Phantom sent Raoul a contemplative look, and another long look at a coracle which was now on the edge of the water. He must have rowed in while Raoul was playing the organ loudly enough to cover the noise. Now, with a sigh, he walked across the room and pulled down a lever, and with a creak a wall of grating descended a few yards into the water. The Phantom watched until it was fully lowered, then walked over to Raoul.

“I’d rather you not eat over my organ,” he said. “You could get crumbs under the keys.”

“A travesty,” Raoul said. He shuffled slightly, clinking the chain. His mind was racing. Did the Phantom intend to unlock the cuff? That could be hugely advantageous. The grating was blocking the way out now but it was controlled easily by a lever, and had moved very quickly. The coracle might be slow, of course—but then, the water didn’t look very deep. As a last resort, Raoul could always swim.

Of course, it would all depend on him being able to overpower the Phantom for a minute or so, which had not turned out so well the last time, but now the Phantom did not have the element of surprise in his favor and he did not seem to have a weapon either. Raoul had sporting odds—for a risky gamble, at least.

He squared his feet on the floor and smiled politely. “Very well then. Let us eat at the table.”

The Phantom snorted and shook his head. “You’re altogether too obvious, monsieur. You want to try your luck?”

“There would be no point in my trying anything. You’ve brought the grate down.”

“Yes, and you would have no idea what path to take out of here—it’s not a simple tunnel, you know—and I’m probably twice as strong as you,” the Phantom said drily. “But you’d still like to try, wouldn’t you?”

Raoul would have said something then but the Phantom silenced him by bringing a hand up to touch his cheek. A gloved hand, still, but again he shivered.

The Phantom said, “I could stop you but I’d rather not hurt you.”

“You did not seem as hesitant last night.”

As if reminiscing, the Phantom slid his hand down to Raoul’s neck. Raoul tensed. No point in fighting him now, not when he didn’t know where the key to the ankle cuff was and he was stuck to a damned organ. But if tried to squeeze down, Raoul was still going to punch him in the nose, mask or no.

But the Phantom didn’t. Instead, he wandered off to another corner of the lair and came back with a short coil of rope.

“Hands,” he said.

At that, Raoul really did go to punch him in the nose. Unfortunately the Phantom moved quicker than he did, and somehow his hand ended up tangled in the rope, and then twisted behind his back. The same happened pretty quickly to his other hand. He cursed.

The Phantom fetched a key from a drawer and unlocked the cuff on Raoul’s ankle. “Well then, monsieur. Let us eat.”

Raoul gritted his teeth. Fine then.

He followed the Phantom over to the table, where two chairs were already set up. Set up for Raoul? Or perhaps for Christine…no, she had only been here once. For who, then? The Phantom couldn’t have many visitors. Maybe he really had procured a second chair for Raoul. Or maybe he kept a second chair there regularly because he liked to be reminded that he was lonely.

They sat down. The Phantom poured drinks—water only, to Raoul’s surprise. He brought out plates from a cupboard (where Raoul could clearly see at least ten plates, if the chair hadn’t been sad enough) and served the food, two slices of bread and cheese for Raoul, two slices of bread and cheese for the Phantom. And half of the apple for each of them.

“I’m not going to be able to eat it,” Raoul said. He wiggled his fingers against the rope—no, on reflection it was more like cord—holding his hands behind his back. Maybe the Phantom wanted him to eat with his face on the plate like a dog. Honestly, Raoul was fairly hungry at this point and hardly cared what the Phantom thought of him. If he had to, he’d probably do it.

But the Phantom, after taking a few bites of his own meal, shifted his chair closer to Raoul’s and, picking up a piece of the bread with a slice of cheese on top of it, held it up to Raoul’s lips. Raoul leaned back slightly, and the Phantom only reached a bit further. Finally, keeping his eyes on the food, Raoul took a bite. The bread and cheese stayed at a level. He chewed. Swallowed. Took another bite.

Looked up to find the Phantom’s eyes fastened on his face, and carefully continued chewing. He couldn’t let the Phantom know he was rattled. At least it was still better than trying to pick up the bread using only his teeth.

“You’d like some water,” the Phantom said. His voice was oddly low and quiet. He put down the bread and cheese and brought the glass of water to Raoul’s lips. Raoul worried that he would spill the water down Raoul’s neck, onto his shirt, or maybe pour so much into Raoul’s mouth that he would gag, but he only poured a little into Raoul’s mouth before tilting the glass back up again, and waited for Raoul to swallow before repeating the action.

The entire meal went like that. In the end, the Phantom had a lot of food left to eat when Raoul was done. He ate it quietly, not pausing to speak. In the silence Raoul realized he had not spoken the entire time.

Finally, the Phantom was done eating. Putting his glass down with a clink of finality, he said, “In any case, monsieur, you should not worry about the play.”

“The play,” Raoul repeated. The play. He had not thought about it in what seemed like hours.

“While I was out, I happened to overhear a conversation between the managers and a few others. Monsieur Piangi will be replacing you. So you see there is no need for you to return tonight.”

Using his feet, Raoul pushed his chair away from the table. “And how long do you intend to keep me here, then?” He intended to sound demanding. His voice came out slightly ragged instead.

“We will see,” the Phantom said. Reassuring. “For tonight, I thought you might like to see my—no, perhaps I should say our—opera. I have Box Five reserved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually had this chapter written about a week ago but I like to write a bit ahead and Chapter Eleven was giving me a headache. Anyways, here it is now.  
> This chapter is me being like, "okay bae you wrote a lot of plot and meta so now you can enjoy a relaxing chapter of kidnapping, bondage and bread and cheese before we go back to war." All my favorite things.   
> Anyways, I hope you're enjoying Raoul's experiences as a kidnap victim! They will recommence next chapter. In the meantime I'd love to hear from y'all in the comments. :)


	11. A Night at the Opera

As it turned out, Raoul was not enthusiastic about joining Erik to see _Don Juan Triumphant_.

“Why not?” Erik said. “You don’t seem to like it very much down here. Would you prefer I leave you alone while I go to the opera?” Of course, he had no intention of doing so, but it was nice to see the Vicomte’s rage begin to boil.

“Monsieur, I would prefer you to release me,” Raoul said. “If you do not wish me to perform tonight—if you wish me to observe—I can do so with the rest of the audience in my usual box.”

He did have a usual box, although it was not reserved for him alone. Privilege of the opera house patron that he should always have a seat ready for him, even when he was an actor in the play being performed.

“Mm. But I wish you to watch the play with me. I rarely have any company.”

“I will be very poor company, since I can hardly enjoy myself when I am being held captive.”

“You’ve been fine company so far,” Erik said with a shrug. His voice was ironic (he couldn’t give the Vicomte, so acerbic, the slightest hint of sincerity) but it was more true than he cared to reveal. For years he had lived with no companionship except for that of Madame Giry, a marvelous woman but reserved and very busy. And eventually Christine, which had been heaven—but of course he had at first lied to her and hid for that, and later, when she had come down on that one occasion, it had all gone wrong very quickly when she figured out what sort of man he was, what sort of beast. At least there was no pretense with Raoul, and at least Raoul didn’t seem to be frightened by him (though perhaps a bit intimidated), even if he was angry. Besides, Raoul would have to get over his anger at some point. Erik knew from observing the Vicomte that while he was easily frustrated he could never remain angry for too long. His quarrels with Christine (rare enough occurrences) generally lasted less than a day, at which point they easily made up. Sooner or later he was bound to get tired of arguing with Erik as long as Erik continued to act civil. He could already see Raoul’s ire weakening.

“It will be a good opera,” he continued smoothly. “You know it’s been good for every performance so far. You have not seen Christine sing from the audience, and I assure you it is an experience worth having.”

“Then I can have it,” Raoul said. “In my own box.”

Erik clenched his fist. Really.

Casually, he grabbed Raoul’s collar and pulled him closer. “You refused me when I offered to teach you, too. When I offered that honor to you,” he said. He still couldn’t say he was happy about that. “I let that pass because an unwilling student is useless. But monsieur, you need to learn that you cannot refuse me.”

Raoul’s eyes were fastened on Erik’s face, gaze steady, but Erik could feel him quivering. Not frightened—perhaps that was an exaggeration. But it was not bad to have a healthy dose of fear. Fear, after all, was another form of respect. And respect was a step away from friendship, and friendship…

But Erik would have given anything to get even that much.

“What are you going to do, then?” Raoul asked. “I thought you said you didn’t want to hurt me.” His lips curled into a smirk.

Erik let go of his collar. He had said that, hadn’t he? Funny, to have it quoted back to him, as if Raoul believed he had meant it. He had meant it, of course, but even with Madame Giry, he had never felt that anyone truly believed his promises—except, of course, the ones that were threats.

No, he didn’t want to hurt Raoul. Hadn’t ever since opening night, when he saw Raoul acting the part he had written onstage with such conviction and sincerity. Or perhaps since before then. He wasn’t sure when his feelings had changed, only that once he had wanted nothing more than to see Raoul dead and now even considering such a thing felt unspeakably wrong, like a note played not only for dissonance’s sake but off-key and wrong. He wasn’t entirely sure what he did want from Raoul, but he thought it involved Raoul smiling, and not the scornful grin he was offering Erik right now.

“We are going to watch the opera together,” he said. And he fetched another piece of rope.

Tying Raoul’s legs turned out to be somewhat tricky—and devolved into a wrestling match pretty quickly—but it still only took a few minutes. Raoul didn’t have his arms free and there was only so much kicking could accomplish.

Raoul settled down once it was clear he was well and truly tied. As Erik had observed—fits of temper that never lasted long. The Vicomte was as fickle as the wind.

“Is that good enough?” Erik asked. “Are you ready to go watch the opera now?”

* * *

 

Erik had worried he would have to gag Raoul too—he didn’t want Raoul to be screaming for the gendarmes to come rescue him through the entire opera, since you could actually hear people through the wall that separated the secret chamber from Box Five. It would have disrupted the opera at the very least, though Erik doubted the gendarmes would actually have been able to catch him. All the entrances to his series of tunnels were very well hidden, and even if you knew where they were you still had to find the mechanisms and catches that opened them up. In short, it would have accomplished nothing but it would have ruined the opera completely, which would have been a travesty.

Apparently Raoul more or less agreed with him on that point, though. That or he just had too much of a sense of dignity to scream for help.

“You have a nice setup for yourself back here,” he muttered grudgingly when they arrived in the secret chamber. Probably he was willing to be complimentary because Erik had put him down in one of the two chairs he had sitting near the peepholes, which was considerably more comfortable than being toted over Erik’s shoulder. Of course, he ruined it by still glaring at Erik with an amount of animosity that Erik honestly did not think being tied up warranted. They were about to watch an excellent opera. The least Raoul could do was get in the mood.

“Tonight I set it up for you as well, monsieur.”

Raoul shook his head. “You may say that but you treat me more like another part of the furniture.” He slumped against the chair. “Did we need to come down this early? You don’t need to hurry for seats, and it will be at least another half hour…”

Probably longer. There was no one actually seated in the audience yet—they would be admitted soon, if Erik’s timing was right. But he often came this early to the plays and operas. It was somehow thrilling to see and hear the people stream in and know they couldn’t see or hear him, couldn’t judge him or hurt him as long as he kept hidden away. Hidden like this he could even like the people who came to see his opera or whatever the opera of the occasion was, feel like one of them. As they milled around he imagined himself among them, sitting next to perhaps a stout lady in blue and a tall man with spectacles, discussing whether or not the opera was likely to be good based on reviews and personal experience, casual conversation. Of course once the opera started simple pleasures like that became petty in comparison, but it was still fun to start that way, pretending to be one of the crowd instead of a lonely man hiding in a secret chamber or an empty box by himself.

Tonight perhaps it was unnecessary. After all, tonight he was not alone.

“I cannot believe you sit back here,” Raoul grumbled. “Do you know how many people want to sit in your reserved box?”

“I know the gendarmes have it surrounded, which would make sitting in it rather foolish, don’t you agree?”

“Still complaining about the gendarmes…”

“You’ll find that one does not grow less peeved at the possibility of being arrested as long as it persists,” Erik said. “I have watched every performance of this opera thus far and thanks to your meddling I’ve had to stay back here every time.”

“It seems to me, monsieur Phantom, that one can hardly expect more when…”

“Erik,” Erik interrupted.

“What?”

“I told you to call me Erik, didn’t I?”

Raoul shrugged. “Fine. It seems to me, monsieur Erik, that one can hardly expect more when one has committed murder and threatened the entire cast with further disaster on a regular basis. You would think us fools if we…”

Erik allowed Raoul’s words to roll through his brain, in one ear and out the other, without paying attention. He was beginning to regret his choice not to gag the man, who had a pleasant voice enough but employed it with so little diplomacy that he was lucky Erik was not only restraining himself from gagging him but also from strangling him to death.

Fortunately for both him and Erik he quieted down when the overture began to play. And Erik leaned back to enjoy for the first time the performance of his opera with company.

In many ways it was the same as always. The Vicomte de Chagny had been kidnapped, but that didn’t affect the musicians in the pit or the ballerinas, who performed with the same efficiency as ever although there was no doubt they had heard the news—one could hardly avoid the news of a missing cast member when said cast member played the leading role. The scenery was the same, the costumes the same. But in other ways it felt entirely different.

To begin with, Piangi was a very different Don Juan from Raoul. He was undoubtedly a better singer—Erik’s song in his mouth was the song Erik had always pictured it to be—and he played a far more immoral and controlling Don Juan, the sympathetic aspects Raoul gave him disappearing in this interpretation. This made the dynamic between Don Juan and Aminta and Zerlinda and all the other characters very different, far more distant at the least. Erik wasn’t sure whether he liked this version of Don Juan better or worse than Raoul’s, but he did not regret casting Raoul in the role for the first seven performances. It had been far too enjoyable seeing Raoul onstage, seeing his unique interpretation and chemistry with Christine (who had far less chemistry with Piangi) to regret it.

Speaking of watching Raoul, sitting with the Vicomte rather than alone made the experience something different as well. Erik found himself constantly glancing over at Raoul to see how he was reacting to various events of the play, even the most stirring moments when Erik would usually be far too involved in the events himself to think of anything else. At the beginning of the play Raoul seemed somewhat on edge but as he relaxed he did begin to pay more attention to the action onstage. He snorted slightly at the comic relief parts, frowned at some of the Don Juan solos (probably unable to stop thinking about how he would have played the part differently), and seemed to zone out during the ballet sequences with a small smile on his face.

Erik expected that when Christine entered he would see Raoul happy, but the effect was rather different. Raoul half started, then glanced over at Erik, whose gaze he had till now been avoiding. Seeing Erik’s eyes on him he looked back at the stage and pointedly did not look over again. Christine’s presence seemed to make him more aware of Erik, then—intriguing. But when Christine began to sing her first solo, his expression changed from that uncomfortably aware tension to a look of worshipful longing, his eyes utterly alight.

So then, her music made Raoul feel as Erik did. But Erik could not help but be jealous. He knew that he, even in moments of rapture, certainly would never look as beautiful as Raoul did now. His hands trembled at his sides. He was not entirely sure what he wanted to do with them. Did he want to cover his ears and protect himself from Christine’s music, or did those hands long, even with this wall separating them, to stretch out to her? Perhaps he wanted to trace the smile on Raoul’s with a single finger, wondering how men tolerated beauty in others without wanting to possess it, wondering if one could ever possess something so beautiful when oneself was ugly. Or perhaps he simply wanted to smack Raoul until blue bruises mottled his face, made it more like Erik’s.

He forced himself to refocus on the plot of the play.

In the end it was over all too fast. He could have listened to the singing for hours longer, watching Raoul’s small movements and changes of expression. Of course seeing Piangi go through the seduction scene was cringeworthy—now that he’d seen it performed with real chemistry he knew his initial vision, while still dark and seductive, would never quite measure up. But apart from that it was a wonderful few hours, and when it was over, he sat back in his chair with a certain feeling of regret. Tonight had been a night he felt he would never be able to recapture. He would never again sit this close to Raoul, never again hear Christine sing so well.

No! That feeling was ridiculous. He pressed his lips together. He had resolved that he would lose neither Christine nor Raoul, and he would not allow himself to believe such a loss to even be possible. To prove it to himself, he pulled his chair closer to Raoul’s.

Raoul was watching the gendarmes inspect Box Five with an expression of annoyance, but he still was not calling out for help, thank God. On hearing Erik move he looked over and raised an eyebrow.

Erik, realizing he had no reason to call Raoul’s attention to him—he planned to linger a bit after this show, and they were not heading out yet—put a finger to his lips, hoping it looked threatening. Raoul rolled his eyes so he probably did not succeed as well as he might have hoped.

They sat there for a while in silence, even after the gendarmes were gone. At last Erik cleared his throat.

“And so, monsieur, did you like my opera?”

“You keep asking me that,” Raoul said. “I do not see how my opinion matters.”

Erik wasn’t entirely sure either. Casting about for something to say, he asked, “Did you like Christine?”

“I love Christine,” Raoul said. Which wasn’t really the question he was asking, but it did still answer the question in a way.

“She sang well tonight,” Erik said. “Though she is not as good when you are not her partner.”

“Should I be flattered?” Raoul asked, raising an eyebrow again.

Erik mentally cursed. Of course he should! Of course he should. Even Christine was flattered at Erik’s interest in her, even when she was afraid. Erik had made her and Raoul the center of his masterpiece and Raoul didn’t even have the courtesy to appreciate it. It was infuriating beyond belief. But Erik only said, “Your Don Juan is very different from Piangi’s.”

“I suppose so.”

Erik nodded.

After a moment, Raoul asked, “Why do you prefer my Don Juan? Christine will sing well enough with anyone. We both know Piangi is the better performer, monsieur—I am not even professionally trained. Yet you do not seem to seek my humiliation. I am sure if you did you would be much more effective.”

“You are correct. I do not seek your humiliation.”

“Then why?”

Erik said, “Your Don Juan is different. He is not the way I imagine the character.”

“That seems like a reason to keep me far off the stage, monsieur.”

“It is difficult to explain. I suppose it is because you yourself are nothing like a Don Juan,” Erik said. He thought of the first time he had heard Raoul duet with Christine. How to describe what he had seen that night? “You’re more…more of an Aminta.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You have not the heart of a seducer, nor do you have the cynicism to see the world in its bitterness. You are different. Purer, I suppose. Kinder. One of the bright things of this world,” Erik said slowly. “And yet, despite that foolishness, you somehow have the ability to ensnare a Don Juan most easily.”

He pushed his chair a bit further away from Raoul. “And too, you saw something new in the role I wrote, as Aminta saw something new in Don Juan, or perhaps caused it.”

“You make me sound a genius,” Raoul said. “I fear I am not as perceptive as you say.”

“Yet I feel you can see Christine better than I can. You know better how to make her happy, how to love her. There is something about that, I suppose, that is beautiful.”

“I am as blind as anyone when it comes to her. I can but guess as to her desires…”

“No, monsieur, do not belittle it. It is not so easy to see what someone wants. I have never managed it myself,” Erik said. “You see her with those same eyes you see Don Juan, so clear and so kind. It makes me wonder sometimes how you look at the world, how…”

How Raoul might look at him.

Raoul was waiting for him to finish the sentence, but Erik did not. Instead he took a deep breath and then, before he could stop himself, ripped the mask away from his face.

He took the wig off too. What the hell—why should he fear judgment from the Vicomte? And yet, he somehow wanted to see if perhaps Raoul would not look at him in judgment, could look at him, his disfigurement, with warmth…

And yet, with his mask in his hand, he found he could not look up from the floor.

He heard Raoul draw in a sharp breath, but there was no scream. Silence.

Erik slowly looked up.

Raoul’s eyes were on him, scanning his face. They were not wide but slightly narrowed, analytical. His expression was guarded—as Erik had taken off his mask, Raoul had put one on.

“You are not afraid of me,” Erik said.

Raoul said, “Would you like me to fear you?”

His voice was defiant, but Erik could only shake his head. He reached out a hand to Raoul’s cheek, and Raoul did not flinch away.

“You are handsome, monsieur,” Erik said. “You have known a world of beautiful things. Perhaps even with your eyes you cannot see any beauty in this hideous apparition, this worthless Erik.”

Raoul did not say anything. His jaw was trembling.

Disappointed, Erik lowered his hand. Mechanically he slipped the mask back on, carefully positioning the wig on his scalp. He did not know what had possessed him to take it off—he had not planned to do any such thing, not tonight—but it had been a poor idea. He’d been acting on impulse too much lately. One gained nothing that way.

“Come, monsieur,” he said. “The opera is over now. We should return.”

* * *

 

He did not speak to Raoul on the long way back to the lair. Disappointment sat heavy on him, and shame. He had shown to this man what he always hid away from the world, what he properly hid away from the world. Raoul might in time have thought of him as a man rather than a ghost. Now he would think of him as neither, but as a grotesque monster.

He guided the gondola carefully round the bends, concentrating on rowing and not looking down at Raoul, who was still tied and sitting at the prow of the boat. Only looking at what was in front of him.

This meant that when he arrived at the lair, where he had left the grate up when they left for Box Five, he spotted her instantly. The white robed intruder standing near the water, watching their approach, Madame Giry’s coracle docked next to her.

Of course she would find a way down here now, of all times.

“Christine,” he called out over the water as the boat approached the shore. “Christine.”

But as she watched the boat pull in she shouted back only one word: “Raoul!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER IS FINAL LAIR.  
> Sort of.  
> If you're wondering why this chapter took so long I could say it's because I'm bad at writing endings and tying plot threads up, but actually it's more because classes hit me with a ton of writing and reading assignments at once, so.  
> But anyways, do you know just how long I've been waiting to do that title drop? The answer is since chapter one. A very long time. So that's one thing off my "things I need in this fic" checklist.  
> Anyways, I'd love to hear from y'all in the comments, and I've really appreciated all the comments you've left so far! Things are wrapping up but they aren't done yet so stay with me.


	12. Chapter 12

Christine tried to put her all into her performance that night. The Phantom was watching, and tonight she felt he was malevolent. Watching, and he had Raoul…she could not displease him.

So she sang with as much force as she could muster, hit every note perfectly, held out her long notes where she was allowed to improvise just a touch longer than usual. She grinned coquettishly, swayed her hips heavy with seduction, and silently begged the ghost she knew was watching: Love me. Love me. Be pleased with me and don’t hurt my Raoul. Of all things don’t do that.

And so she gave the finest performance she could. Still, she knew that in many ways she was failing. She was not as good as she could have been. After weeks of practice with Raoul she had lost much of her rapport with Piangi, and Piangi was somewhat out of touch with his character as well. Not to mention her mind was not fully in her part, but rather in that invisible audience, and so she was distracted, though she did not know if this was apparent to the audience.

But she danced, she sang, and she graciously accepted a roar of applause from the audience at the end of the show. Going backstage she planned to head out to meet them as usual but she had barely stepped behind the curtain when she was stopped by Madame Giry.

“Do you have a message from the Phantom?” she asked quietly.

Madame Giry shook her head. Grabbing Christine’s arm, she said, “You did well. But now we must move.” And without explaining further she started walking towards the back of the theater, away from Christine’s waiting public rather than towards it, dragging Christine along at a rapid pace.

“Where are we going?”

They turned a corner. Madame Giry paused in front of a random wall panel, glanced around to check that no one was in the hallway with them watching (and no one was) and pressed a certain design carved into the wood of the panel. To Christine’s surprise, the design moved—and within instants, the wall panel slid aside as well, to reveal a tunnel dimly lit by hanging lanterns.

Madame Giry stepped inside quickly, pulling Christine after her, and maneuvering something with the wall panel, slid it closed again. Turning to Christine, she said, “I would show you the trick of it, but there is no time. We must get Monsieur de Chagny away from that man as soon as possible.”

“This leads to his lair?”

“It is a twisted path, but yes. And we must hurry.”

As they walked down the tunnel, Christine soon lost track of the twists and turns, the places where the tunnel branched off, even the sets of stairs. They had not even been walking for long, but the route was too confusing. She remembered it had been similar when the Phantom had taken her from her room—only then she had been in a trance, to which she had later attributed most of her confusion. Apparently it was not so.

“He may not have Monsieur de Chagny with him,” Madame Giry said, though with a hitch to her voice, since this pace was hard on her breath as well as Christine’s. “He has many rooms here, many chambers…but if you cannot find Monsieur de Chagny, find him instead. Perhaps you can talk reason to him.”

She paused. Christine could not tell why for a minute, then realized that they had come to the end of the tunnel—or rather, where the tunnel turned into a canal. There was a little coracle waiting there, less elegant than the Phantom’s gondola and really only suited for one person. Did Madame Giry intend for her to go alone?

Madame Giry said, “At least I do not doubt the Vicomte is alive.”

Christine swallowed. Raoul already being dead was a possibility she had barely allowed herself to consider.

“If he were dead, I’m sure we would know of it by now. We learned of Buquet’s death soon enough, didn’t we? And he had a good stage for it tonight…But calm yourself, Christine. I am sure he is alive, whatever the Phantom has done with him. But you must go to him now, and you must bring him back.” She stepped away from the coracle, and gestured for Christine to step in. “I will wait for you here as long as I can. Go safely.”

So Christine got into the boat, sat down, picked up a paddle, and started rowing.

The canal, at least, had no twists and turns. And it was surprisingly short—she had remembered her journey on the gondola lasting far longer. But she soon saw the shore of the Phantom’s lair, and though it tested her every nerve, she pulled up and tied up the boat.

Raoul was not there, as she had half expected. That would have been far too easy. The Phantom was not there either, but aside from that the room was just as she remembered. Half the candles were still lit, not as many as before but enough to fill the room with an eerie golden glow—even eerier where it reflected off the water. This was a ghost’s haunt, the candles reminded her. It was not the place for a human woman to try her luck.

She stood on the bank and waited, wondering how she had managed to catch the ghost out. Somehow she expected him to always be in here, and somehow simultaneously always everywhere else in the opera house too: listening to every conversation, watching every play, spying behind every wall and watching her, constantly watching her. That she should be here and he should not seemed very wrong.

But she did not have to wait long.

Soon, she could hear the echoes of splashing water, though without a voice—and oh, how wrong it seemed to picture the ghost without a voice. But it was him. Within minutes of the sound she saw his gondola approaching, him standing tall at the stern with his face directed at the shore.

She could tell the moment he saw her. His head lifted slightly and he called out to her. “Christine. Christine.”

That was good. It was far more natural to see him and to hear his voice at once, that same compelling voice that lay somewhere between pleading and commanding whenever he spoke her name. But she ignored it. Craning her neck she managed to look around him—around that intimidating black silhouette—to spot the person she really wanted to see sitting behind. He was still wearing his Don Juan costume.

“Raoul!”

///…///…///

When the boat was in shallow enough waters, and tied to the dock, Christine waited for the Phantom and Raoul to come ashore. The Phantom climbed out and started walking towards shore instantly, but Raoul did not, and Christine quickly saw the problem. He was still sitting in the boat because he couldn’t get up—he was bound hand and foot.

Christine hesitated only very briefly before rushing into the water herself. Her skirts were already wet and dirty from her trip here. Now they began to get soaked, but she hardly cared. If she could embrace Raoul, she knew he would care about her state of cleanliness even less than she did.

But as she headed towards the boat the Phantom stepped in front of her and grabbed her arm.

It was now that Raoul finally spoke. “Christine!”

The Phantom cocked his head but did not turn back. “Calm down, monsieur. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Let her go!”

“I said calm down.” He did not even bother to raise his voice. “Christine, I am surprised to find you here.”

Christine tried to pull free of his grip—Raoul was so close—but it tightened. He pulled her with him back to the shore and across the room, where he pulled down a lever. It was only then that he let go.

A grate descended from the ceiling within instants, walling the room away from all but the shallowest water. Christine let out a little cry and rushed towards the water (the Phantom not stopping her now) but it was too late. She wouldn’t have minded being trapped. She had known very well the risk she took confronting the Phantom on his own territory, the risk of confronting him at all. But the grate had descended between the shore and the boat, and Raoul was still sitting on the other side.

He had somehow managed to kneel up now, causing the boat to slightly rock, and was staring straight at her. She stared back.

She hoped her eyes said, “We will get through this together.” She hoped they did not look like his: wide, longing and afraid.

The Phantom touched her shoulder and she whirled around, trying to smack him. He dodged. If she could pull off his mask it might throw him off balance and give her an advantage—but then the last time she’d done that he’d also gone into a near homicidal rage, and she wasn’t sure the tactical advantage was worth it.

“You have gotten as easily angered as your lover,” the Phantom said, backing away from her. “I must ask you again why you came down here. I did not invite you, and you have never seemed to like this place in the past.”

“Why did you take him?”

“You mean the Vicomte?”

“Why did you take him?”

“We watched the opera together. You performed well tonight, though admittedly you have done better. You’re been neglecting your lessons.” The Phantom had wandered over to the organ and now he played a couple melancholy chords. Raising his eyebrow he said, “I hear you had a great tutor once. Perhaps you ought to go back to him.”

“Is that what this is about? I haven’t been singing well enough for you, or taking your lessons? Is that what this is about?”

“I have told you in the past I would like to begin tutoring you again. You still have much to learn. But you are an excellent singer, and I will not insist.”

“Then it is because I am no longer interesting enough for you.”

The Phantom smiled slightly. He played another couple chords, still melodic. Reminiscent of the first time she had come here, and how he had serenaded her. Back when he had only been a mystery to her and a teacher, and she had not known what darkness lay inside—not the ugliness behind his mask nor the fierce corruption of his heart. She had not truly known him at all back then, and she wished she did not know him so well now. He did not frighten her as much anymore now that they were face to face, but something about him wearied her. Perhaps she was the same for him.

But he said, “I apologize if I have not been paying you enough attention, but you can hardly blame me when you have been so unresponsive.”

“You tire of seeing me,” she said. “You seek some new amusement…”

“I never loved you because you were amusing.”

“You are bold to call your affections love!”

“And you are bold to speak to me like this,” the Phantom said. He rose from his seat at the organ bench but did not step towards her. “I know you never returned my love. The Vicomte holds your heart.” He gestured towards the boat. “But it might be well to remember that I hold his life.”

“You’ll threaten me with him?”

“I only suggest prudence.”

“If you hurt him, I will see you dead.”

“Calm yourself,” the Phantom said. “Have I hurt him yet?”

Christine turned towards the grate. “Has he hurt you, love?” She rarely called Raoul by pet names, but in front of the Phantom she felt an urge to do so out of spite. Yes, she loved Raoul, she chose Raoul. Let him see what Raoul had that he never would.

Raoul called back, “No, I am fine. You are well?”

Always polite. “Perfectly.”

“Be careful!”

Around the Phantom, it was always best to be cautious. But there was only so much one could do.

She turned back to him. “What do you want?” He did not answer. “Do you want me? Do you want Raoul? What do you want? I will give it to you.” He still did not answer. “I will sing for you. Do you want me to sing?”

“You’ve sung enough tonight.”

“Never enough for you. You always want more music.”

“I am done with music tonight.”

“Well then what do you want? For once in your life just say it!” He did not answer. Christine walked over to the organ, fists clenched. “If you want me to rip my soul from my body, I will do it. You can make a devil’s violin from my bones. Anything, I will give you. You must give me back Raoul.”

The Phantom pressed his lips together. “And what if I don’t want what you offer?”

She walked around the organ and stood facing him, chest to chest, closer than she’d been to him all night. “I know you do.”

She put one hand on his shoulder, and the other hand on the unscarred side of his face. On tiptoes, she brought her lips to his. It was easy, in a way. She’d kissed Raoul so many times that the motions were mechanical, although he was taller than Raoul and wore a mask. It was also very hard, and she had to close her eyes tightly to do it. But he pulled away from her before she could go very far.

She was surprised that she felt a bit disappointed.

“I don’t,” the Phantom said. It was the first time she had heard his voice hoarse. He backed away from her, unsteady. “I don’t, I don’t…”

“Please, let me—”

“No!” His scream echoed through the chamber. Christine almost covered her ears. Skirting the piano, he staggered over to the lever and pulled it up.

The grate began to rise.

The Phantom strode into the water. Christine scrambled after him and intersected him at the gondola just as he pulled out a knife. She threw herself in front of Raoul, spreading her arms wide.

The Phantom laughed.

“You won’t hurt him.”

“Christine,” Raoul said. “Step away.”

“You misunderstand me,” the Phantom said. “I only intend to cut his bonds.”

“You will not touch him.”

The Phantom shrugged, then offered her the knife, hilt first. “If you wish to do it yourself, you may.”

Christine took it and hesitantly turned her back to the Phantom. Raoul held very still as she sawed at the cord he was tied with, but it still took a few long minutes, and she cringed at the feeling of the Phantom’s gaze on her back.

When she was done he tried to stand but wobbled and fell out of the boat and into the water. With a gasp, Christine pulled him up—of course he was fine, only as wet as she was, but she quickly checked his head for bruises or bleeding. None. She turned back to the Phantom, still standing there.

“Then we may leave?” she asked.

“You may leave. And I would prefer you not to return without invitation.” He paused. “You may have trouble finding your way out…”

“Madame Giry is waiting for me.”

“Indeed. You must thank her for me.”

Christine winced at the irony in his voice (hopefully she hadn’t just gotten Madame Giry in trouble) and pulled Raoul over to the coracle. He was still somewhat wobbly on his feet. She forced him to sit down and allow her to take the paddle.

As they rowed away, the Phantom yelled after them, “There is one performance left. I expect to see the Vicomte onstage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been planning this fic as 14 chapters for a few weeks now anyways but jk it's going to be 15 because I can't tie up that many plot threads that quickly and besides having this be Christine's last POV section...not ideal.  
> Anyways!  
> This scene didn't go exactly as I was planning. I was planning for there to be more pitiful pleading and less aggressive kissing. Also a lot more Raoul. But hey, Christine's been hanging in the background for most of this fic and final lair is really her showtime so I guess it's good that she gets to have fun. (Hopefully it wasn't too ridiculously OOC. This fic is getting out of hand.)  
> I'd love to hear from y'all in the reviews. Three chapters to go.


	13. So You Kissed Erik

What shocked Raoul was how quickly the whole thing was dismissed.

He had to explain himself to the managers and the director, but after he told them the Phantom had took him and Christine had gotten him back, they did not question him further except to insist that he be there for the last show, which of course he was already planning on. And the gendarmes only asked for a simple account of his experience, surprisingly enough, before leaving. Clearly they thought he wasn’t being entirely honest. It was frustrating (this lack of seriousness was exactly why the Phantom hadn’t been caught yet!), but he was glad of it. He wasn’t sure how to explain what had occurred between him and the Phantom, and although of course it had been a kidnapping and a criminal act it somehow felt private. If they had asked, he didn’t know that he would have agreed to explain further—though why, he was unsure.

That did not mean no one was curious. While the managers, the director and the more important actors allowed his explanation to pass, the ballet girls were abuzz with gossip. But most of their questions were directed at Christine, and so he escaped interrogation almost completely.

Except from Christine. She brought him back to the safer areas of the opera house without asking him much beyond whether he had been hurt and whether he would in fact be able to sing the next day, but once he was safely there and had told the managers and everyone else, she took him aside in his dressing room. Not hers—after the last time Raoul had been there he thought he would avoid it for a while.

“You are going home,” she said.

“I suppose I am.”

It felt odd to think that after all this he was going home the same as he would have if he’d been in the opera tonight as in every performance before. Or as if he had been attending as a guest of his own accord, and not in the company of the Phantom.

Christine took his hands in hers. “After this night I would not blame you if you did not come back. You could leave Paris, get away from all this…”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was a small incident.” It had involved being choked, drugged, chained and tied up by a maniac, but overall he had not been injured in any permanent manner. And the whole affair had lasted hardly a day.

Christine shuddered. “You still do not take him seriously. You think this is some sort of game. But Raoul, if you had been with me when I saw his face…”

“Oh,” Raoul said. “I did see his face tonight.” Should he have told her that? The Phantom had seemed to regard it as some sort of private gesture…but once again, of course he could not be considering the desires of the man who had kidnapped him. He cleared his throat. “I suppose it was rather ugly.”

Christine stared at him.

“I mean,” he said. “There were sort of…wrinkles…and I’ve never really seen an eye like that before, Christine, it was very odd. His wig is very good, I would not have guessed him to be bald.”

“Is that all you have to say about it?”

“Is there anything else to say?”

Christine stared at him again before saying, “I suppose not.” She frowned as a new thought occurred to her. “You said he did not hurt you.”

“He did not. Except for the initial choking…”

“He must have been very angry when you took his mask off.”

“I didn’t take his mask off.”

“What?”

“He took it off himself.”

Christine crossed his arms. “I can’t believe that. When I took it off him—and I wasn’t attacking him at the time—he reacted as if I had peeled away the skin on the other half of his face. He threatened to keep me locked down there forever.”

“He let me go easily enough.”

“He took it off for you?”

Raoul shrugged and leaned back against the wall. The day had exhausted him, and he did not know how to answer her. “It was an odd thing for him to do. It was after we had watched the opera together. By the way, you sang very well tonight.”

Christine smiled. It was a tired smile—not the sort he liked to see on her face, for it made him wonder if she would rather cry. “I did not know you were listening.”

Perhaps it was not the best subject. “He tied me up and put me in that boat and brought me to see the opera, and we watched it together. I suppose he’s enough of a fanatic to kidnap someone just for that, perhaps. And then we talked about my acting and singing.” Against his will he found himself flushing. “I thought he would critique it like he did a few weeks ago but he said that I was good. He said I brought something different to the role…I did not totally understand everything he said then, but I felt that he was saying what he truly felt.”

Christine narrowed her eyes. Leaning forward, she said, “He said those things to you.”

“Yes.”

“And you enjoyed hearing it?”

He looked down. “Everyone’s been saying my singing is so bad…”

“Well, it is not at the level of a professional. But you know you never would have been in the opera if it were not for the Phantom. If anyone is at fault for the critiques, it is him.”

“Then it would be all the worse if he hated my performance as well.”

“It should not matter to you what an insane man thinks.”

“It matters to me when my life is on the line.”

“It matters to you more than that!”

Silence. They had both almost been yelling. Christine stepped back—their faces were only inches apart, and Raoul was already backed against a wall.

Silence, and all Raoul could think about was that they never really fought before. He would get overly protective sometimes or Christine would snap a little after a long day and they would argue over trivial things but they never yelled and they never really meant it. They always ended up letting each other win, and when they did get upset it was because of someone else or something else and they had each other’s backs.

This was the Phantom’s fault. His fault that Christine was…what? Jealous at his having spoken to the Phantom? And if it came down to that, which of them was she even jealous of? With the amount of respect she used to give her Angel of Music she hardly had any room to talk.

“He matters to you too.”

“What?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t think about him,” Raoul said. “I see you staring off into the distance when we’re alone, like you’d rather be somewhere else.”

“All I can feel toward him is fear.”

“It doesn’t always look like fear.”

“Maybe you are not very perceptive.”

Raoul closed his eyes. For a moment he could hear the Phantom’s voice echoing around his head. The eyes to see what somebody wants… “I can see that you want him.”

“You must be blind.”

“You kissed him, didn’t you?”

“I kissed him to save you,” Christine hissed. She had turned red, and now he thought she really might cry.

“Well, I’m sure it was a great sacrifice,” Raoul said. God, what was he doing? She had come down and rescued him like an angel in truth, and here he was mocking her. But somehow his mouth wouldn’t stop moving. “He’s not bad looking as long as you keep the mask on.”

“You seem to like him with it on or off. Would you have rather have stayed there with him?”

“Perhaps I would!”

“Then it’s a pity we don’t know how my mirror opens! But I’m sure if you leave a note with Madame Giry you can work it out nicely.”

They stood there for a moment, both trembling slightly. Raoul thought to himself that it was quite certain that Christine was going to cry. Let her. The things she was accusing him of…what was she accusing him of again? She was being hateful and he was not going to tolerate it, that was certain. He put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath. “I…”

“You can be back down there by tomorrow night,” she said. “I’m sure.”

“I don’t—” His voice broke in the middle of the word.

“Raoul?”

He stumbled back against the wall and sank to the floor, legs tangling beneath him.

Dimly he realized he was sobbing. So much for the stiff upper lip, then. Fine. Let her see how she had hurt him. Let her see how he was weak. And he was weak—he’d been very weak today and yesterday, allowing himself to be kidnapped and dragged around, and perhaps if the Phantom did kidnap him again it would serve him right.

“I don’t want to go back there,” he choked out. “I don’t…”

“I didn’t mean it,” Christine said helplessly. She squatted next to him, skirt pooling around her. “I swear I didn’t mean it. I want you to stay here, Raoul, and I know…Please stop crying…”

She opened her arms and he almost lunged into them, clutching her as tightly as he was able. And she held him steady as he shook with the violence of his sobs, trying to hold still for her and failing. He was getting snot on her robe. He tried to pull away but she held him and he fell back onto her.

Breathing in the scent of her perfume, he waited for the storm to pass.

At last he came more to his senses. His eyes wept out of tears and his body weak (he had not eaten since the Phantom had given him lunch) and he was lying down on the floor and Christine was lying next to him, neither of them willing to move away from each other, fearing that if they moved away from each other they would somehow begin again to fight, as if proximity were the only thing holding them together.

Raoul spoke. His voice was flat. “I do not hate the opera ghost anymore.”

Christine rolled over and draped an arm over him. “I do not think I ever hated him.”

“He seems lonely.” He shifted closer to her, closer into her embrace. “I cannot hate him even if he is a murderer.”

Christine said nothing for a minute, then said, “I think I wanted to kiss him.”

“Christine…”

“I didn’t have to. There were other things I could have done, other ways I could have…” She shook her head, but she did not pull away from him. He reached over and pulled her head close so that it rested on her shoulder. Talking into his chest, she said, “I could have hated it more.”

“I would not want you to be hurt by…”

“I almost enjoyed it,” she whispered. “He seemed human then. I almost wanted him to want me—he used to want me and he does not anymore.”

Raoul’s hand was in her hair, stroking the back of her head. He said, “I want you.”

“I know you do. It was a foolish thing.”

Raoul shook his head. “I can understand it. When he showed me his face, he touched me…” he took her hand and placed it on his cheek. “Here. I liked it.” He let her hand slip away from his face. “I did not know what to say to him.”

“He touched me, once.”

“I think I might have liked to kiss him too.”

“Raoul!”

“I know it’s stupid of me,” he said hurriedly. “And not what he would want…but if I had been in your position and he wanted me…”

“I think he wants you more than he wants me.”

“You must be wrong.”

Christine put a finger to his lips. “We must not argue again.”

She was right. It was a silly thing to argue over, when they were usually so united. They lay closer now than they often had after sex, but it was not odd to him, and it did not occur to him that they ought to get off the floor and go home, although it was by now very late at night.

“I liked him more than I thought I would,” he said at last. “But I do not know what he would have done with me. In truth it is a very good thing that you showed up. You saved me. I must thank you…”

She kissed his cheek.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you,” she said.

And so, they fell asleep.

* * *

 

For the second day in a row Raoul woke up with a stiff back—though at least this time he was a lot more certain of his location and remained entirely unchained to any piece of furniture. It was also considerably earlier, thank God, which meant Christine was able to creep off to her own dressing room without anyone noticing. It would have caused a scandal if people had known they had spent the night together, a scandal neither of them had the energy to deal with.

Raoul was not exactly in the mood to sing in the opera again that night, but at the opera house the only person whose mood mattered was Carlotta—and not even hers when the Phantom had given explicit orders. He had a large breakfast and lunch to make up for his fasting the day before, and a light dinner, and he warmed up his voice carefully. Crying the night before had strained it, as had yelling, but neither had gone on for too long and with some tea he found his throat was in good working order.

This time, he thought. This time surely the Phantom would do something. He had been lying in wait during all the other performances, watching from his little peephole, but now after kidnapping Raoul and releasing him surely the time had come for the grand finale. And while Raoul did not admit it to Christine, he itched in anticipation.

Only, nothing happened.

Well, the performance went as usual. A sold-out audience (there hadn’t been quite as many people last time but doubtless news of Raoul’s disappearance had boosted interest all over again), a decent amount of applause, a lot of singing. Nothing more.

He spent nearly the entire performance waiting for something to happen, for the Phantom to show up. As a result he forgot until the final bows that it was the last time Don Juan Triumphant would be performed. The roar of applause, even louder than normal, reminded him—as well as the managers coming out to give a speech thanking the director, the patrons, and various other people.

His role as Don Juan had come to an end.

Dazed, he walked by Christine’s side as they greeted the fans and patrons. Everyone seemed to want to know whether he was likely to be in another opera. He couldn’t tell by their expressions whether they wanted him to say yes or no, so he told them the truth: no. This was it for his stage career. A few of them expressed regret while others said it was probably for the best. He was not sure which he agreed with. Perhaps both.

And then there was a dinner where he tried to say as little about his reasons for joining the opera as possible, indeed talk to anyone about anything as little as possible, and for the most part allowed Christine to speak for him. And then he finally went home, and then the last performance night was over.

The next day, he wandered over to the opera house as early as usual. Rehearsals were starting for a new opera— _Faust_ , this time—and he had nothing to do with that, of course, but after four weeks of practically living at the opera house he was unsure what else to do. Besides, there was always Christine to see, and after the end of the opera which had been such a great source of stress for her he wanted to see how she was doing.

Automatically he went to his old dressing room and opened the door without knocking, to find Piangi flipping through a new score.

Oops.

He began to close the door but Piangi called out, “Monsieur de Chagny! I wanted to speak with you. Please, come in.”

So Raoul came in. Thankfully Piangi did not mention his idiotic mistake. Instead, he handed Raoul a newspaper turned to the arts section, where Raoul immediately sought out (also by reflex) a review of _Don Juan Triumphant_.

“A review of Saturday’s performance,” Piangi explained as Raoul read. “I thought you might find it of interest.”

The review was from a paper that had critiqued the cynical mood of the opera before, and praised Christine and said all the usual comments. This edition, therefore, was more focused on recent changes, and particularly focused on Piangi substituting for Raoul as Don Juan.

It read, “Many people have remarked on the outlandish choice of Vicomte Raoul de Chagny to play the role of Don Juan in this epic farce, a role which calls for operatic skill which most believe de Chagny does not have. Therefore, the news that Ubaldo Piangi, Paris’s favorite tenor, was playing Don Juan was especially noteworthy. It was anticipated that Piangi’s performance would greatly change the caliber of the play as well as its overall mood. Having been to the opera myself and seen his rendition, I can say this is entirely true.

“Piangi is a better singer technically than the Vicomte is, or most likely ever will be. But we all know that—Paris has marveled at his vocal skills time and time again, skills only to be matched by the likes of Carlotta Giudicelli or, more recently, the up and coming Christine Daae. His performance of certain songs, in particular the songs where Don Juan is most angry or cynical, reveal subtleties of composition that prior performances had not. His vocal range as well was as impressive as always. Yet, while other critics praise him for improving upon the role originated by the Vicomte, I find myself somewhat dissatisfied.

“There are two elements of opera—the element of music and the element of story. Both must be developed together; both are inextricably entwined. Piangi is a master of music, and in this performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_ it certainly shows. But with him as Don Juan the character is greatly changed. The Vicomte de Chagny played a man with both goodness and evil in him, a man whose cynicism and cruelty were caused by an equally cruel world. Piangi portrays a man who is merely selfish and lustful and hard, with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. As a result, his chemistry with Miss Daae as Aminta falls flat, and it is much harder to become invested in what happens to him.

“Musically, Piangi is far superior to the Vicomte. Yet it cannot be denied that the Vicomte’s performance evoked sentiments that Piangi’s quite simply did not. If this opera comes to stage again, I wonder if a singer will be found who can balance these two qualities. That would make it an opera truly worth seeing.”

Raoul put the newspaper down and looked back at Piangi, who was grinning.

“They did not actually say I was better in the role.”

“But Monsieur, you see, we all have different strengths and weaknesses. As for your weak voice, with a few years of training…”

“I am a Vicomte,” Raoul said. “I can’t become an opera singer for good, you know.”

“Of course,” Piangi said. “Still, if you are to continue coming to the Opera Populaire regularly, there are a number of people here who would be willing to give you lessons. I know many patrons were disappointed that your debut is not a sign of things to come.”

Raoul shook his head. “Monsieur, you are far too kind. I am not…”

“Think it over.”

“Very well,” Raoul said.

He headed out to see Christine, but found she was busy with Madame Giry and the ballerinas, who were just beginning to block out _Faust_. They had performed this opera before but this time Christine would have a larger role, besides which Madame Giry had certain modifications for the dance routine. So he waited by her dressing room until she was done, which wasn’t until around noontime.

“How goes _Faust_?”

“As well as might be expected.” She launched into a blow by blow description of every blocking modification and her own preoccupations with the increased number of lines she had to memorize. Raoul listened carefully. Lines to memorize—he had not considered it a serious concern until he had been forced into the role of Don Juan. But now the thought of lines made him grimace, even though these ones belonged to Christine and not to him.

They talked for a long time about Faust, but they both knew they were dancing around what they really wanted to talk about. Christine was the one to finally bring it up, for which Raoul was thankful.

“Do you think he’ll leave us alone now?”

“I don’t know,” Raoul said. “Probably not. Most likely not.”

Christine sighed. “I doubt there is a place where we could run from him.”

Raoul did not say that neither of them really wanted to. It went without saying.

Instead he said, “It galls me to wait for him to make a move.”

“You could send him a note,” Christine suggested. “Not like that,” she added hurriedly, when he flinched. “My darling, I didn’t mean…but really I do not think I could wait another three months for him to show up again as we did last time.”

“You think Madame Giry would deliver a note?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“You think he would even read it?”

Christine pursed her lips. Pointless, asking her. As if either of them could predict the Phantom. But it was not a bad idea.

He took a piece of paper from her desk, and a pen and an inkwell. And with Christine looking over his shoulder, he began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, in my writing I only have one chapter left to write and it's hella weird. HELLA WEIRD.  
> Anyways, for the rest of this fic R/C has been a relatively steady ship so I had to send out some waves. But couples need to learn how to work through arguments rather than hiding their insecurities. Well, I'm sure they can work these things out.  
> Anyways, I'd really appreciate some comments. Two chapters to go.


	14. The Point of No Return

The final performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_ was a let-down.

Admittedly Erik was not sure what he had wanted from it. From opening night onwards, every performance of his opera had been indeed triumphant, spectacular, and well worth all his years of careful writing. Christine’s soaring arias, Raoul’s pained cynicism, Carlotta’s fury and the chorus’s thunder—it all wove together into something more than his score and script could ever have predicted.

He had loved it every night. He wanted to love it more this night, the closing night, than ever before, but how could that be possible? Instead of enjoying it, instead of exulting in this final triumph (and lately it felt like he got so few triumphs), he found himself mentally nitpicking instead, in a way he hadn’t nitpicked since opening night had opened his eyes. The chorus, weren’t they a little bland? Christine’s notes, weren’t they a little hurried? And Raoul, while putting on a very good shot, was clearly exhausted if you knew to look for it. Though at least for that imperfection, Erik had no one to blame but himself.

Raoul had to be thinking of Erik. He had to be. After the night they had shared, after the things they had talked about…only he might well be thinking of Christine instead. Christine had rescued him last night—as if he had needed rescue!—practically swept him off his feet. That was enough to occupy the mind of any man.

Half unconsciously, he touched his lips. Yes, Christine was enough to occupy the mind of any man. And then, embarrassed even though behind the wall no one could see him, he hurriedly thrust his hand back to his side. She had made it quite clear last night what she thought of Erik. She thought him some sort of monstrous antagonist, the way she had practically attacked him. And a pervert, for that matter. He had never asked her to kiss him. Why would she think he wanted her to kiss him? And God, to his shame he had frozen under those soft lips for a moment too long, almost allowed himself to go along with it and taken advantage of her when she thought she needed to please him to save her fiancé. And God, the worst part was she wasn’t entirely wrong. He had considered once, as dispassionately as you please, how he might use the Vicomte against her if she refused to leave him. But that had been a long time ago. Only a month ago, perhaps, but that was long enough.

Onstage, Raoul was singing a song about the ugliness of the world. Erik had thought those lyrics so marvelously clever and wise when he first came up with them. Now he listened to Raoul’s voice and tried to ignore the words. Raoul could not sing them with the proper heat and Erik found he no longer felt the heat behind them he once did either.

So, then. He could not feel the agony and hateful longing that had once fueled his music. He could not obtain from Raoul any understanding or compassion. And he could not accept what little love Christine was willing to offer him (Love! As if her offer the night before had engendered any sort of love for him). And he could not sit and enjoy the music of his own opera properly because of these three facts and because of an even more pressing fourth: having once sat with Raoul inside this little chamber, he felt suddenly aware of just how empty the chamber really was.

So, then.

What was to become of him?

Did he clap at the end of _Don Juan Triumphant_ with the rest of the audience? Oh yes, he clapped. It would have been impossible to insult the singers by refusing to do so. Had he been in Box Five truly and not merely adjacent, or had he been in the mood for interference, he might have strained his vocal chords by booming for an encore. But then, he found he could hardly stomach the idea of an encore either. It would not prolong this opera’s pitifully short run, nor would prolonging the opera’s run ultimately mean that anyone in the audience would see him in its art, or appreciate him, nor would such an appreciation be anything akin to the love he had found himself desiring of late. A foolish creature he was indeed, to desire such an impossible, such a miraculous and such a rare thing as love.

He had gotten by for years with no one except for Madame Giry, he reminded himself. He had gotten by for months without Christine seeing his face. He didn’t need—what, unconditional acceptance? For a monster? The play had been a success, though critics were dubious—and it was always better to puzzle critics than to get too much praise, as an overly praised opera was often shallow and trendy, gone as soon as it came. The managers were bending more and more to his will lately. The gendarmes were getting skeptical of his existence and would probably give up their hunt all too soon. The opera house was his, and he didn’t need anything else.

So he went straight back to his lair after seeing the opera end, not even bothering to check in on Christine’s dressing room or watch the audience filter out of the theater and into the lobby. He went back to his lair, and sat down at his organ, and began to play. Not the songs he had written for this opera, which he found was beginning to grate on his ears. Nor any new songs, for while he felt a spark of an urge to create new music, the spark spoke to him of songs of love and love foiled, which he felt it wiser not to pursue—such songs were far too idiotic for a man of his dignity, in any case. No, he could not allow himself to become so degraded. Instead he played old songs, songs from the classical composers, songs he had learned when he first learned to play the organ. It might be better to remember his roots. They were not all painful, even if most were. And he was beginning to stretch himself too far.

* * *

 

Erik had planned to spend the next few days in utter solitude playing classical music and musing upon his life choices, and he certainly had enough food for it as well as enough of a melancholy mood, but only the next evening he found himself interrupted by the arrival of Madame Giry.

She arrived in the same coracle as always, which was usually fine with Erik despite the noise of the water. Today, however, he couldn’t help but remember that this was the same boat Christine had used to invade his lair and steal Raoul away from him, and he greeted Madame Giry with a certain level of coldness.

“I hear you assisted Christine the other day. Should I thank you on her behalf?”

Madame Giry’s face, forever unmoved, gave away nothing: no sign of fear, no sign of apology. “She has thanked me herself, in person, monsieur.”

“Ah,” Erik said. “Well, that’s as it should be. After all, without you she never would have found her way down here, through such twisty tunnels as mine.”

Madame Giry smiled thinly. “And neither, many years ago, would you.”

Erik grimaced. He hadn’t truly meant to threaten Madame Giry, only to intimidate her a little, remind her that he was someone to be feared and not someone to be so easily disrespected. But with a single sentence she disarmed him. She had never helped him out of fear, he supposed, but out of…pity, perhaps. It still made her better than everyone else in this damned opera house, and for that he would have to forgive her.

With a sigh he gestured her in, and she sat down at the table across from him as usual. Where Raoul had sat only two days ago—but no, he was not going to think about Raoul. The Vicomte was no longer Don Juan, and had nothing to do with him anymore.

“What can I do for you, Madame Giry?” he asked. “You do not seem to have brought me supplies. Are there things we need to talk about?” He hoped she didn’t intend to scold him for kidnapping Raoul. That whole affair was none of her business, and in any case it was over. Christine had judged him for it harshly and punished him harshly (with a wicked, burning kiss), and she had had the right to do so, but Madame Giry had nothing to do with Raoul. She had a lot to do with Erik, but that still did not give her the right to judge him.

She seemed to be judging him nonetheless, eyes level and cold. Usually while she was grave she did not seem so…evaluating. Measuring. She did not speak for a moment. At last she took an envelope out of her pocket and handed it to him.

It was sealed with a stamp on the wax that had the insignia of the Opera Populaire.

Erik eyed it with distaste. “Have the managers decided to make contact with me now?” He broke the wax as he opened the envelope. “Do they have complaints about my salary? Or perhaps they want to commission me to write a new opera…” His voice trailed off as he pulled out the note within. It was not in the handwriting of either of the managers, which he had seen time and again. It was instead written in a hand he had only seen a few times, on notes to Christine—the hand of the Vicomte de Chagny.

His hand trembled. He thrust the note onto the table, face down. “Or are you the Vicomte’s errand boy now?”

“He said he wished to send it to you,” Madame Giry said, implacable. “I thought you might wish to receive it.”

His hand was still trembling. What would the Vicomte write to him? His imagination blearily conjured up images: a challenge to a duel, a letter decrying the kidnapping or the role as Don Juan or perhaps a belated reaction to Erik’s face. None of them seemed very likely—Raoul liked to talk to people face to face. The duel seemed the likeliest idea, and even that was ludicrous.

He turned the note over.

“Monsieur O.G.,

“I fear I did not speak to you clearly the other day, as you gave me much to think about and I required time to ponder it. Now I would speak to you more clearly and more completely, if you would afford me the opportunity. While I no longer have a dressing room, I will be available around the opera house often in the coming week if you would wish to meet. I would be much obliged to you for the meeting.

“Your Sometime Don Juan,

“Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.”

Erik put the note back in the envelope with a sigh. “I told him he was hardly a Don Juan.” But still, Raoul calling himself Erik’s Don Juan…or for that matter Erik’s anything…sent a shiver down Erik’s spine.

He looked sharply at Madame Giry. “You are trying to set a trap for me, madame?”

“Monsieur, I do not even know the contents of the letter. Only that it was for you.”

“He is not very good at setting traps,” Erik said. The continuing failure of the gendarmes proved that much. “I’d probably be safest if he were trying to set one. A man of great subtlety.” He smirked.

“Do you wish me to send a response?” Madame Giry asked.

Erik shook his head. “But thank you for delivering this one. If the Vicomte sends me another missive, I would greatly appreciate you doing so again.”

Madame Giry rose. “Certainly, monsieur. I trust the news was good?”

“I cannot tell you that. I am not sure myself. But I do intend to find out.”

* * *

 

It did not take him the full week to find Raoul alone. In fact, it only took him two days. It would have taken him less if Raoul had resumed his practice of waiting in Christine’s room for her—the most convenient meeting place in the Opera Populaire—but he had taken up wandering all over the opera house, only meeting her later and now conversing with all sorts of cast members he had met in Don Juan Triumphant. Apparently Erik had expanded his social circle, which had never been his intent. He hoped Raoul was grateful.

In any case, he eventually did manage to corner Raoul when Raoul headed off to fetch something from Christine’s room for her—finally!—and he just barely managed, by racing through his secret passages, to get there first.

When Raoul opened the door and saw Erik there, his whole body flinched. He looked like he was about to step back into the hall. Erik immediately stepped forward and dragged him inside by the shoulder, shutting and locking the door behind him.

“Get your hands off me,” Raoul snapped.

Erik let go.

“You shouldn’t be in Christine’s room without her permission.”

“You said you wanted to meet with me. Did you want me to send a series of notes to work it out? This is more efficient.”

Raoul bit his lip. “I suppose. I did want to speak with you.”

Erik leaned back. “And? What was it you wished to say?”

Raoul said, “Take your mask off.” When Erik hesitated, he said, “I can’t talk to you in that mask. Not if you want me to speak to you honestly.”

“I do not remember you liking my face.”

“I like your mask less.”

“Fair.” Erik slowly took the mask off and dropped it on the dressing table. He looked over at Raoul, whose eyes were fixed on his face. Mock me now, he wanted to say to him. Laugh now, or tell me of your horror. You who have been at my power perhaps deserve a chance to have me at yours.

Raoul said, “You don’t need to wear the mask in front of me again if you don’t want to. I can see why you wear it but it will hardly intimidate me more than you already do.” He shook his head. “I think we know each other well enough at this point.”

“Monsieur, you would be bold to claim you know me.”

“True,” Raoul said. He stepped closer to Erik. “And yet, I find that despite myself I want to.”

Erik stepped back. “Want to know me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. So the Vicomte has a curious side?”

Raoul shrugged.

Erik felt an ugly grin spread across his face—not that a grin on a face such as his could be anything but ugly. “Anyone would like to solve the mystery. Who really is the opera ghost? What terrible secret lies behind the mask? What his past? What his motivation? It would be a lovely story to tell the press…or to keep as a secret, perhaps. Would it give you satisfaction?”

Raoul growled.

“Going to tell me I’m wrong?”

“You said you wanted me to see you.”

Erik paused. “Ah. You remembered that.”

“I could hardly forget,” Raoul said. “You said you wanted me to understand you. But understanding someone is not as simple as seeing their face.”

“What more is there to know?”

“I don’t know!” Raoul threw up his hands. “But I’d like to. Why do you make this so hard? I thought you wanted…” He trailed off.

Fair enough. Erik was never quite sure what he wanted either.

“I am glad you remembered our discussion,” he admitted.

Raoul said, “You called me an Aminta then. I was not sure what you meant. But if you are Don Juan and I am Aminta, then perhaps…” He swallowed. “I wondered if I might hold some interest for you.”

“You will have to be more clear.”

“The way I play Don Juan, he is in love with Aminta,” Raoul blurted. His face had gone red. “Everything else he says is in part a lie, but that much is true. He loves her.”

“The way you play him.”

“You said I played him well.”

Erik inclined his head. “I have always admired your interpretation.”

Raoul nodded as well, mirroring him. But his eyes were fixed on the ground. “Then…your Aminta at first was Christine. And you loved her.”

“I have never tried to hide it.”

“But if I am your Aminta now,” Raoul said. “If I am your Aminta, and you are my Don Juan, then you must love me.” He looked up and met Erik’s eyes. “Don’t you?”

There were lyrics circling round in Erik’s head. Lyrics he had written, lyrics which were meant to be sung in a whisper but now bit and screamed every crevice of his brain. Past the point…past the point…past the point…past the point…

Raoul stepped closer. “You didn’t like it when Christine kissed you,” he said. “Would you mind if I did?”

Past the point…past the point…past the point…past the point…

Erik thought he heard his own voice saying, “No.”

This was what Erik had thought of the point of no return: it had to be wild, sinful, allowing desires to burn you up, practically an act of destruction. The point of no return was the death of morality, the death of oneself. You lost everything. You lost your mind. It was corruption and it was purification. It was a woman’s dirty mouth on your skin and a throbbing heat in your groin and it left you wrecked, ruined, desecrated, mournful. It was regret embraced, it was truth in its harshest form. It killed you, it enflamed you. It was a collapsing bridge that left you stranded in no-man’s land. A scandal. An outrage. An act of self destruction where pleasure tore away self preservation and life didn’t matter anymore.

 But now.

Raoul’s hands were anchors on his hips—they were firm but they did not clutch, and he did not feel the impulse to shy away from them. And Raoul’s lips on his—they were as soft as Christine’s, he thought dimly, maybe softer. They did not demand anything from him, they did not accuse him. When after a moment of contact he felt Raoul’s tongue gently teasing at his lips, it was not demanding either. Yet he let it slip in, perhaps because of that. Ah…he was not contributing much to this kiss, he realized. Mostly he was still frozen, and letting Raoul do all the work. But Raoul did not seem to mind.

It did not feel sinful. It did not feel destructive. There were no flames scorching his skin—he melted rather, like ice in a thaw. He was not dying, and though the world seemed to stand still it was not falling. It was solid; it was real. Life mattered not less but more than ever.

But, “I cannot return from this,” he thought, as he brought his hands up to grasp Raoul’s waist. “I cannot return from this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS  
> For the first time since I started this fic I'm posting a chapter without finishing the next one because writing endings are hard. So. The next chapter might take a while to arrive, but that will be the last one.  
> Anyways.  
> I think my true colors are showing: I ship E/C/R with a heavy E/R bias. A very heavy E/R bias. But idk man. It's the least canon and the most dysfunctional side of the threesome. What's not to love?  
> Anyways the next (and last) chapter belongs to Christine to make up for it.  
> I have to take a moment to rant here because I'm seriously wondering what I'm going to write after I'm done with More of an Aminta. I kind of want to do more Phantom stuff but I might also take a break. I have a few novel ideas...but I'd rather wait to start a novel until I'm home for the summer, and that won't be for another month. So.  
> If you want to help me choose what I'm going to be writing in the next few weeks, head over to tumblr (convenientalias.tumblr.com) and hit me up. I'll probably be posting about this angst and I would love some input.  
> And of course comments are much appreciated. This fic has gotten so many lovely comments so far. It makes me very happy.


	15. New Compositions

Christine heard about it all from the Phantom. But only a week after she’d already heard it from Raoul. Perhaps he needed the time to gather his thoughts.

She knew, of course, that he was bound to come back to her sooner or later. Raoul was thoroughly euphoric about the fact that Erik apparently loved him (for a given value of love, she reminded him, and her reminder went unheeded), and that was all very well, but she knew Erik. He might be fascinated Raoul and love him in a way, but he would come back to her. He was tied to her as thoroughly as she was tied to him, and while he was the one who had created their relationship, who had pulled them together, she knew he was now as helpless as she to break apart.

Yes, he would come.

She did not feel his gaze on her as strongly lately. In some ways it was disappointing. Rehearsals became less thrilling and tense when she did not instinctively feel someone watching her, and she felt less pressure than before to sing well. Mostly, though, it was a relief. It was relaxing to sing simply for the people before her and for herself. She began to remember that there had been a time, long ago and at her father’s knee, when she had sang for fun and not as if she needed music to breathe. She began to remember what it meant to live life without the sense that at any moment a chandelier might fall down on top of you—or a noose wrap itself around your neck.

Of course, she did not know for certain that the Phantom was no longer watching her. Doubtless he still was looking on at times—unless he was holed up in the basement composing again. But whether he was watching or not, she could not help but feel the threat had passed. The Phantom didn’t want to kill or kidnap Raoul or her, and he didn’t want to destroy the opera house, and he might be cranky at the managers but so was everyone else so that hardly mattered. She had sung in his opera and come out of it alive. If anything, she had come out stronger than ever.

“His music was good for you,” a part of her whispered. “You miss the rush. You need it.” But then she remembered how it felt when Raoul had disappeared, and she knew that however much she wanted or needed the Phantom, if he was calming down it could only be good.

And she knew she was not losing him. She knew he would come.

And he did.

He came to her after a rehearsal when she was just leaving her dressing room, heading out to meet Raoul. Raoul was busy talking to Piangi about…something, she couldn’t remember what…and had said he would meet her at Piangi’s dressing room so they could go out for dinner together.  So Christine had hurried to change tonight, and she would have hurried down the hall no doubt, only she was arrested as soon as she stepped out the door by a voice.

“Christine.”

She shut the door. “You could have spoken to me in my room.”

“I’ve been recently informed that it’s rude to enter a lady’s room without her permission.”

Raoul must have said that. It sounded typical of him, to defend her honor that way—besides which she couldn’t think of anyone else who would be so impertinent towards the Phantom himself. She hummed, tempted to laugh but well aware that the Phantom did not have the most flexible sense of humor. Who knew what he might take as a joke in good taste and what he might take as offense?

“Very well then,” she said. “I suppose it is polite of you.” She swallowed. “I have been wanting to speak to you…”

“My pardon. You did not seem to enjoy our last conversation.”

“Because you’d kidnapped my fiancé,” she said. So much for not offending him. “You can’t just kidnap people and expect everyone to be fine with it. For all I knew he could be dead.”

“I would not have killed Raoul.”

“You’d killed before,” Christine said. “How was I to know for certain?”

It had not escaped her attention that he had called Raoul by his first name, something that he had never done in front of her before and that was oddly informal. Well, she supposed when you kissed a man the formalities became somewhat pointless.

The Phantom was silent for a moment. He said, “I am not a good man, Christine. But I think I may become better.”

“You may,” Christine said. “I hope you do. But I will not let you hurt Raoul. I wouldn’t then, and I never will.”

“Because he is yours?”

“Because he is mine,” Christine affirmed. She crossed her arms.

Another long moment of silence. Then, the voice again. “Perhaps you should know, then, that your Vicomte is in love with me.”

“I—”

“You cannot deny it,” the Phantom interrupted. “He has not said so in as many words, but he asked for me to come to him, and he kissed me. He kissed me just as he kisses you sometimes. Without the mask. He did not mind my face.” He paused. “You should know that I love him as well. So I will not hurt him. But if you try to take him from me, understand that you will be seeking the ire of the opera ghost, and I may not be such a good man as I am trying to be.”

Christine blinked.

A threat. A threat to her? The Phantom had not withheld himself from threatening her before, but usually on such occasions he was trying to get her to break her engagement so they could be together. This was the first time he had threatened her on the behalf of someone else…well, somewhat Raoul’s behalf. She doubted Raoul would have actually appreciated the thought.

“I do not care if you marry him,” the Phantom continued. “Marry him and go to the devil! I suppose it would make both of your happy enough. But if you try to stop me from…”

“Phantom,” she interrupted. “Look. I already knew.”

“Knew what?”

“I knew that he loved you,” Christine said. “We talked about it and it’s fine. He told me his intentions before he even sent you that note.” After a brief pause, she said, “You know, the note where he asked you to meet him? I helped him to draft that. We thought it would be better if he spoke to you first…”

“First?”

“Well yes. We knew you’d come to speak to me of your own accord sooner or later, but you might have avoided Raoul indefinitely. You can understand our concern, I’m sure.”

“Oh yes,” the Phantom said. His voice had gotten fainter. “Of course…excuse me. You knew that Raoul was going to speak to me, and what he was going to speak to me of?”

“Of the fact that he wanted you, and that he thought you wanted him too.”

“That he…that I….” The Phantom cleared his throat. “And you allowed this.”

“Yes.”

“You are fine with your lover, your future husband meeting with a man like me and desiring a man like me? You encourage this sort of behavior?”

“Yes.”

The Phantom didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

“His love for you does not change his love for me,” Christine said. “There is room in one’s heart, you know. For more than one. When the heart is generous.” With a small smile she added, “Besides, it would be rather hypocritical of me to criticize such a desire when I find that in many ways I share it myself.”

“When you…”

Christine bit her lip.

She was not like Raoul. She could not simply ask the Phantom to kiss him (well, she already had, and see how that had turned out!), nor could she simply declare love. The Phantom had already abused what love she had offered him time and time again, and to give him even a little hope…it was hard to believe he would not misuse anything she said.

He was a hard man to trust. And yet, in some ways, still such an easy man to love.

“Do you love me, Christine?” the voice asked. It was very quiet.

“I don’t know.”

A laugh, too harsh and breathy. “How can you not know? You know you love Raoul well enough. You know love far better than I, and even I know that I love you, both of you. If you hate me, say so. Unless you consider it too kind to release me from this kind of bondage.”

“I don’t know,” Christine said, more loudly. “Or if I do…you know that I have loved you in the past, but you tricked me. How can I love man who has used me as you have?”

A silence. Christine crossed her arms. She realized, as she waited, that she really did want an answer. Because if the Phantom could give her one reason, even one reason to join Raoul and go to Erik’s side and be his, she knew that she would do it. He had always had such power over her, from the first time she heard her voice. She had not known him yet, but even then she would have done anything, gone anywhere, for the man with the voice of an angel.

The silence was lasting too long. Finally the Phantom said, “I do not know. Perhaps I cannot expect such a thing from you.”

“You threatened the managers in my name, forced me into your opera—in a role I would otherwise have refused—for months, lied to me about your identity, kidnapped me, kidnapped my fiancé…”

“I loved you!”

“You tried to love me. As a woman who you say knows more of love, I would say you failed.”

“You could teach me,” the Phantom said. “You could be my tutor. Please. I want to learn.”

“It is not a woman’s job to be your teacher,” Christine said. “In particular, it is not mine.”

There was another, slightly shorter silence. But for Christine it was more unbearable than ever, and so this time she was the one to break it.

“I loved you once,” she said. “Your charm overwhelmed me. Your music flooded my world. And I thought you loved me then! But all you gave me was shadows and anger and distance. How many chances do you want me to give you, monsieur? How many chances does a man deserve?”

A choked noise.

“I do not deserve—”

“And then,” Christine burst out. “I find that all these sensible things—God knows it makes more sense to run—I find they all sound like nonsense to my ears! And then I would rather hear the chords of your opera. I find I do not care, after all, what you deserve and what I deserve and what is right or wrong.”

If the Phantom had sounded like he was choking before, now he was audibly sobbing. Christine’s hands twitched. She would have embraced him, had he been before her. Now, all she could do was speak.

“You must not hurt me again,” she said. “Since I am being so foolish.”

“No…Never…I would not…”

“No, you would not. You would lose me and Raoul both then. We only have so much patience.”

“I will be better.”

“I trust you will,” Christine said. “Then you must follow my lead. It is very difficult, after all, to be a good man.”

* * *

 

Five months passed.

_Faust_ was a success. Carlotta and Piangi were back in the spotlight for the most part, but Christine hardly retreated to the shadows. As for Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, well…the papers wondered whether he would show up in another opera. It seemed quite possible, especially after a recent announcement that he was engaged to Miss Christine Daae—and that said opera girl did not intend to quit the stage even after they were married. They made much of the fact that he was still visiting the opera house regularly. One ran an interview with a normal ballet girl who claimed he was taking voice lessons with Piangi, but many did not believe it. Piangi was a man in the prime of his career, after all. He would never have time for such things.

The accidents, for the most part, subsided. The notes did not, but their tone had changed, the threat in them less present. The Phantom still reserved Box Five, where the gendarmes were no longer stations. He still claimed a salary. But the salary had lessened and he no longer caused much trouble. Much.

And the genius who wrote Don Juan Triumphant? The papers no longer wondered about it, but certain patrons of the opera still did. Had it been a single accomplishment never to receive an encore, never to be repeated? Who was it? Would he ever write another opera? Was he perhaps (the more morbid wondered) even alive, or had it been his dying masterpiece?

The Opera Populaire wasn’t saying, and in truth even the managers did not know. But there were three people (apart from the author himself) who knew the truth.

The first of these was Madame Giry. The other two were Christine Daae and Raoul de Chagny. And even they did not find out until the full five months had passed, and Raoul finally convinced said author to bring out his new sheet music.

“It is not completed,” he grumbled, as he carefully arranged the papers on his organ. “Not even close to completed, and it is only a couple songs at this point. You understand I have been very busy…and in any case _Don Juan Triumphant_ took me many years to write.”

Christine, who was sitting on top of the organ with her skirts bunched around her, said “We’re hardly composers to judge you. In any case we’re very curious.”

Raoul said, “If you write another Don Juan role Piangi will despair.”

“As if I’m going to put Piangi in a starring role of mine again,” the Phantom said with a snort. “No, he and I both will benefit if he sticks to smaller roles and other people’s operas. Only I hope you are practicing diligently,” he said pointedly to Raoul.

Raoul blushed. “Well, it could be years until you finish this one…”

“Practice,” the Phantom said. He put his hands down on the keys. “Well, now. This is how it is so far.”

Christine listened carefully. She glanced over at Raoul, who had started swaying. Not one to listen critically. She doubted much of it would penetrate his mind—he just wanted to hear some new music and to encourage the Phantom. But she herself found it very interesting.

It was not half as dissonant as the last score had been. The dissonance was still there, oh yes. But it was in between moments of harmony. If _Don Juan Triumphant_ had been an opera to scorch and burn, this one was…

Well, she wasn’t sure how to describe it. And in any case it was barely half written. But it was going to be very different.

Yes, she thought as the song finished and Raoul began to clap enthusiastically and the Phantom flushed and smiled. A very different opera. She couldn’t wait to hear about the plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this...is...it.  
> Um.  
> If you have any constructive criticism, I guess give it now though I'm unlikely to do more than basic edits. Anyways. This is the last chapter which feels...really weird.  
> I started this thing pretty much on a whim and it's taken up a lot of time in the past two to three months, as well as sucking me into the Phantom fandom for reals. So, that's been interesting. And I've really loved all your reviews! Special thanks to those of you who reviewed more than one chapter, some of you practically every other chapter. I am not very motivated on multi-chapter fics and the fact that this one got done so fast is entirely due to y'all.  
> If you're wondering whether I'm going to be writing more Phantom of the Opera fic along this line (E/C/R, E/R, etc.--not a sequel) the answer is...probably. Nothing certain yet, but very probably. So if that interests you, you can follow my account or you can check back up on me in a few weeks and we'll see where I am.  
> Anyways.   
> Thanks, y'all. This has been really great and I'm really sad that I'm done writing it! If you leave a comment down below that would be nice so I can come hug you but otherwise thanks for coming along for the ride.


End file.
